


Connection

by AquatiiicColony



Category: Epic Mickey (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Gen, Hearing Voices, Inner Demons, Intense, Loss of Control, Possession, Psychological Torture, Sort Of, blot powers, slight transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23108470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquatiiicColony/pseuds/AquatiiicColony
Summary: The blot is missing a part of itself... but the only thing it wants is Mickey's heart. Mickey has part of the blot inside of him, meaning the blot can manipulate its creator. Like a puppet.
Relationships: Mickey Mouse & Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, Mickey Mouse & Shadow Blot (Disney: Epic Mickey)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 67





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> As you guys can clearly tell, I have been sucked into Disney brothers hell, or sucked into the Epic Mickey fandom. I didn't expect to be, and I didn't expect this franchise to take such a hold of my heart but it has now. I'm glad that Oswald is getting recognition from this game because he downright deserves it! Anyway, here is the long drabble, and it was inspired by the thinner run of the game. I thought... if Mickey has part of the blot in him, does that mean he can be controlled by the blot? Or manipulated by it? Which means Mickey angst lol. Also, I have never written these characters before, so I hope I did good lol. Anywho, I hope you enjoy! <3

_Something’s wrong._

It was not the ruins of the land of forgotten toons. It was not the fact that massive pools of thinner have tainted the previously cheerful atmosphere of Wasteland. It was not the fact that coal-black, puffy clouds swarmed the skies, looking like it was about to spew out a lightning current or two. It was not the fact that the paintbrush-wielder is responsible for this mess; responsible for causing problems for people he didn’t recognize, and in a land that he abandoned for so long after creating that... that _monster._

No. It was something _else._ He... he can feel it. Mickey can _feel_ it. He can feel it within his body and in the confines of his heart. That organ of his pumped violently, and it felt like it was being squeezed by a pair of clawed hands, and that its talons were scrapping against his heart as if wanting to pry it right out of his chest. It hurt. It _throbbed._ It would make him as stiff as a board, and for the soles of his shoes to be nailing down onto the ground.

Ink dripped upward from his statue of a form, but instead of it being at a slow pace, the ink came off in waves, like the iconic toon was melting. It was like whenever he used thinner, or if he were to make a bad decision. Whenever he used that acidic, green liquid, it gave a sickening sense of satisfaction, like he would gain more of this wrong sense of happiness if he continued to do it. It felt wrong, it felt terrible, and it made him create a solid vow as to only use the thinner whenever it was necessary or if he has nothing but thinner to use.

...But this was different. This was _different._ It was all different. All of that ink was a result of the mouse absorbing part of the blot, so... so that had to be it. But why? The ink swirling within his chest continued to give an uneasy feeling, and whenever he attempted to clasp a gloved hand onto it, every single motion of his body froze into place. It was like he couldn’t move. It was like he was encased in ice. It was like he didn’t have control of his own body.

A worrying thought clamped onto his brain. How was he supposed to save Wasteland from the blot if he couldn’t move? How was he supposed to use paint now to restore what the Thinner Disaster destroyed? How was he, the one who is destined to defeat the blot, the one who has to fix his mistakes, supposed to save the world now? How was he supposed to do any of that if, by the love of Walt, that he cannot move?

_Come here._

Those ridiculously large ears of his perked and those beady eyes of his widened at the voice. A gasp spilled out of his lips, and the fingers gripping onto his brush tightened to the point they were beginning to feel numb. The heart inside of him felt like it was plunged into his throat, and it felt like a lump was sitting in his throat as well. Staggering on his feet for a moment, he hunched himself forward to grab a hold of his right kneecap with his free hand. He twisted his neck as he looked from left to right as if to find the source of that voice he just heard.

There was _nothing._

Nothing except for a certain rabbit leaning against the cold material of the statue that is in Mean Street. Both of his arms were crossed, but his fingernails are digging into his skin. His long ears were upward, and a brow of his was raised but in a manner of confusion and perplexity. His face was scrunched in that matter, but it wasn’t like he was concerned for the mouse. Nuh-uh. No way. He just found that little moment to be strange.

“Yannow, stallin’ isn’t gonna make the blot go away faster...” he muttered, tapping one of his feet impatiently. He inched forward, his eyes squinting. “Somethin’ up with you, mouse? You froze there for a minute.”

Maybe it was just the nerves. Maybe the guy didn’t have the guts to take out the blot. Maybe he was just shaking in his shoes, afraid to face the monster that tarnished this land. It could have been any of those things, but Oswald had to admit it, this seemed off. A little too off. And he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

The falsetto voice of the mouse returned, but it sounded strained as if he was forcing himself to speak. His thin tail was swishing behind him, and its movement made it easy for someone to tell that it meant agitation. He held the paintbrush in both of his hands now and staring at it as if hoping the paint would be there instead of thinner. A crooked smile was carved on his face, and if that wasn’t forced, Oswald doesn’t know what is.

“Nope! Nothing’s wrong! It’s just... mountain jitters, _aha!”_ Even his iconic laugh appeared off. “Let’s go to the top of that mountain and finish this, shall we?” He didn’t waste a single moment to dart towards the projector leading to Mickeyjunk Mountain, leaving the King of Wasteland to be dumbfounded.

A hum rumbled within Oswald’s throat, and he tilted his head to the side as he glanced at the projector. A hand was perched on his hip, and he tapped his foot even more so than before, but instead of impatience, it was out of wonder. It was out of questioning. It was out of suspicion. He was hardly aware that the gremlin that has been helping Mickey out appeared, not until he felt his presence.

“It isn’t _just_ me, isn’t it, Gus?” he asked, now shifting his gaze to the gremlin. “Something’s seriously up with him, and I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.” He emphasized his point by holding his hands together and cracking his knuckles. He looked excited too, but more so excited at finally taking down the blot.

Gus can feel the king’s excitement and curiosity, and he wondered the same about the mouse. Ever since he was dropped into the land of Wasteland, Gus knew that the guy is kind-hearted, and would often use paint to make the blotlings his friends. Paint guardians would constantly twirl around him, and there was hardly any moment that he would use thinner.

But now and then, the mouse would freeze up. His hand would get a hold of the brush, and the tip of the brush would be stained in green. Thinner would launch from the brush and would destroy something so that the mouse would get past. Sometimes, the expression on his face would be something devoid of emotion, like he was doing this automatically. Sometimes, the expression would be one of hesitation, and he would have a look that would say _‘omg what have I done?’_ It was something that Gus hoped wouldn’t interfere with the plans he, Oswald, and Mickey have made so that Wasteland can return to its former glory.

But he has a strong feeling that something is going to change, and he doesn’t know what.

“...It’s not just you, Oswald.” He tried to assure the king, placing a hand on the rabbit’s tense shoulder. “But... we should focus on the task at hand. Mickey needs our help, and you need to keep an eye on that jug.”

He flew into the projector, and Oswald was quick to follow.

* * *

It was the stench of thinner and garbage that rattled the mouse’s nose, and it motivated him to climb to the top of that mountain. With one peek at that mountain, it was like the summit of the mountain was staring down at him. It was like it was giving him an invitation to walk among his ruined merchandise and memorabilia to reach it. All of those smiling faces that are on his merchandise are looking like they are staring down on him too like they were judging him for any kind of mistake he could make.

_You wouldn’t want to make another mistake, wouldn't you?_

_It would be a shame if you caused another disaster, now wouldn’t it?_

_Don’t forget you have a job to do. Don’t let Wasteland down._

_Don’t let your brother down._

Mickey could have sworn those were _just_ thoughts. That they didn’t come from a voice. A distorted, mangled, unnatural type of voice. No, that would be silly. This was just his worries messing with him. This was all in his head anyway. It was just like he just said before... Mountain jitters! It was all mountain jitters and nothing else! It was just... mountain jitters. Yeah.

He wasn’t aware that now he has walked a good portion of the mountain. He wasn’t aware that these movements were not his. He wasn’t aware that the brush in his hand contained thinner now. He wasn’t aware that his eyes had a flicker of green in them, and it wasn’t until he found himself stumbling on his feet and scrambling, his hands sweating under the intense grip he has on his brush.

A few blue bunnies were hopping around his ankles, their tiny paws are now gripping onto his shoes and ankles. Each of them appeared startled, shaking as if something has truthfully disturbed them. Oddly enough, some of them weren’t willing to toss their uncle into the pool of thinner this time around. Their eyes were pinned onto the melting television that’s only an inch away from them. It was drenched by thinner.

It didn’t take a second for Mickey to conclude that the TV was destroyed because of his hands. That droplets of thinner were coming from his brush. He... he did that. He caused that. He scared the bunny children. But... but how? How can he do that? Why did he do that? He didn’t do that, he knows he didn’t, so... why did it happen?

Why _did_ it happen?

The sound of bare feet slapping against the ground snapped him out of his terrified trance, and he spun on the heel of his foot to see that his brother was glaring at him, and he could see that his face is dusted with a red hue. He held his arms out and allowed the bunny children to leap up in his arms, and held them close to his chest as a protective father would do.

“What... in the world... were you _thinkin’!?”_ he questioned, feeling the trembling children in his hold, “You could have scared my kids half to death with that thing you just pulled! What do you have to say for yourself?”

Gus came a moment later, and he couldn’t believe what he just saw. An angry rabbit and a frightened mouse. The rabbit has steam puffing out of his ears, looking like he was preparing to yank one of his ears off and slap Mickey across the face with it. But Mickey... Mickey was buckling on his legs. He didn’t look like he can stand straight anymore.

Mickey was shaking his head. His eyes were squeezed shut. Beads of sweat were dripping down the sides of his head. His tail swished much more than before. His grip on the brush was slipping due to the sweat, and with every single time he opened one of his eyes, he looked at the brush as if it was a cursed object.

That feeling of destroying something with thinner grew stronger within his bones. It strengthened, and it felt good. It felt good and terrifying and disgusting and wrong. His fingers had the sudden urge to do more, to destroy more, to make a wasteland out of Wasteland, and then there would be nothing to save. But he doesn’t want to do that. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want -

_You’re getting closer to the mountain. You’re almost there._

“I... I...” he stuttered, and he couldn’t mask a positive look this time. He was backed in a corner. No amount of false smiles could assure the two toons. “It... it wasn’t me. Honest!” He held out one of his palms in defense, and the hint of thinner in his eyes was gone. “I didn’t... I didn’t do...”

He flinched at the contact of the gremlin’s hand on one of his shoulders. He concealed his mouth with the hand that was previously held out in defense and used it as a way to prevent himself from hyperventilating. He could have sworn this wasn’t him, that he didn’t do this, that this wasn’t his fault, but the Thinner Disaster was his fault.

He left a trail of suffering behind him and abandoned it all. How could he _ever_ make that up?

Ink was coming off of him the second he collapsed onto his knees. He picked at the buttons that are on his shorts as if hoping that it would serve as some kind of distraction from that voice that keeps entering his head. What is that voice? Why is it making him do things? Why is it doing this to him? What did he do to deserve this?

Oh... right. _The Thinner Disaster._

Oswald’s anger instantly vanished at the sight of the fallen mouse. He didn’t know what to expect from this. He didn’t expect any of this to happen. He didn’t know that such a question could rile the famous mouse up, or shake him up enough to be groveling. If he had a heart still, it would be echoing off in his ears.

Gently, he placed the handful of his children down onto the ground, patting each of their heads as to give them one last moment of comfort before they started running off again. He hoped they can find another television to watch Steamboat Willie (even if that short sickened him to watch).

He headed towards his brother and the gremlin whose trying to keep the mouse grounded to reality. He couldn’t help but find himself to be transfixed at the sight before him. Though, at the same time, he couldn’t help but find himself to be angry about it. This is no time to be dwelling in your fear. This is no time to take a rest and dwell on your actions.

The blot needed to be taken care of. _Now._

He walked cautiously towards Mickey, plopping down on his knees himself as to take a closer look at the mess in front of him. Ink was dripping so much off of the toon that it was getting to be difficult to see his face, to see the tears that are sliding down his cheeks. It was dripping so much that the mouse could have been mistaken for a blotling, and that only made Oswald’s stomach coil with something fierce.

He laid his palms against Mickey’s own, silently hoping that would be the one thing to get the guy out of this funk. The grip tightened, now keeping a harsh hold on the fingers, but it could be enough to get some sort of reaction from Mickey... wouldn’t it? He strained his ears to listen in on anything, but all he could make out of what Mickey was saying was “it’s not me, it’s not me, it’s _not_ me...”

“Mouse, this is no time to be sniffin’ daises! We got more important things to take care of, remember? We got the blot to take care of! The blot! _Remember?”_ He tried to make his voice sound as urgent as possible, and it may have come out aggressive, but it was enough to get the point across.

No answer came from Mickey.

“This ain’t time for you to give me the silent treatment either! I know I haven’t been the nicest person to you, but this isn’t what’s important right now! What’s important is gettin’ rid of the blot! Do you hear me?”

Still no answer. The rabbit was awarded silence. That didn’t make him feel any better.

“Mouse, you better snap out of it before -”

He never got to finish his sentence. Gloved fingers were wrapped around his throat, startling both him and Gus. The mouse stood up from his downed position and dried up tears stained his pale face, but that wasn’t what startled Oswald. It was the fact that those innocent eyes are now glinting with green, with thinner. A chuckle came from Mickey, but it sounded unnatural. Distorted and unnatural.

“...Mickey isn’t here right now.”

The retro toon soared through the air after he was thrown, landing right on top of the junk that covered the mountain. All of his limbs ached with agony, and he saw how Gus reached out to Mickey in desperation, calling out to him in desperation, as the mouse raced up the mountain. He _hardly_ looked recognizable anymore.

Gus came to Oswald’s aid, lifting him from the junk at a quick, fearful pace. He looked to be quaking, and the mechanic doesn’t blame him one bit. “Os-Oswald, we have to get to him before he goes after the jug! He... he might release the blot!”

Oswald pierced his tongue at that statement, bewildered by such an accusation. He always figured the mouse would be around to screw up with things, but he didn’t take him for somebody who would open the jug. “Why would he do that?”

“Don’t you understand? Mickey has part of the blot _inside_ of him! I didn’t think this would be such an issue, but... the blot is influencing him, and has taken control of him! The blot wants him to open the jug!”

That has gotten Oswald to drop his jaw. No. No, that won’t happen. That cannot happen. After everything he has done to help Wasteland, after everything he has done to help it from the blot’s destruction, he can’t let this happen again. He can’t let anyone else close to him become inert like his honeybunch. He won’t allow it.

He dug in his hammerspace and pulled out his remote. It was now or never.

“Not on my watch.”

* * *

It wasn’t that hard to see, but it was hard to believe. The blot that was on the top of the mountain was drowning in thinner, and the mouse was perched on the top of the jug. The swirling mess inside of the jug was the real blot, and it looked eager to see that its pawn has his fingers curling around the cork. It would only take one pull, one small yank, and that beast would be unleashed.

Then, it would be free and Mickey’s heart would be theirs. It would be theirs to keep and to have and to cherish. All it would take is one pull and that would be it. That would be the one thing that the mouse would have to do. It would be perfect, _so_ perfect...

If only the lucky rabbit and the gremlin arrived at the last second. Oswald stomped forward, clenching his remote in his hand and pointing it towards his opponent. He forced himself not to flinch at the venomous green eyes that are staring back at him.

“Mouse, this stops _now!”_ he announced at the top of his lungs, “I dunno what hold the blot has you in, but we’re gonna get you out of it! You aren’t goin’ to open that jug no matter if you like it or not!”

An amused grin formed on Mickey’s face, and he leaned forward with his hands behind his back. His brush still has thinner on it. “Do you realize how _close_ I am to the jug? No matter how fast or lucky you are, you won’t be able to reach me in time. You lost, you poor, unlucky rabbit.”

Oswald gritted his teeth in a snarl. “I haven’t lost yet! Just because you got the mouse in your palm doesn’t mean you have won! I will get him to snap out of it, and he _will_ get rid of ya!”

Another distorted chuckle, just like before, came from Mickey. It was enough of a chuckle to send chills down the toons’ spines. He walked back and forth on the jug, and his grin never wavered. “Do you want to rely on someone that has caused all this trouble in the first place?”

Oswald’s ears drooped at an instant. He blinked a multitude of times. _No._ He didn’t hear that right. “What are you talkin’ about?” He looked like he was about to press the button on his remote.

Mickey uttered a mock gasp, a hand flying to nearly touching his mouth, and yet, his grin never faded. He looked dramatic with his sudden theatrics, but it wasn’t comforting at all. “Oh, he didn’t tell you? Why, you poor rabbit, there is another reason you can resent the mouse...”

He leaned forward once again, and a part of him demanded this to stop, demanded to be free again and regain control. He locked his eyes with Oswald. _“I_ caused the Thinner Disaster...”

It was like time stopped at that moment. Everything stopped. It was like the summit was frozen in time. And yet, everything that happened next happened so fast. The first thing that occurred was Oswald gripping onto his remote, electricity spitting out of it, his entire face becoming red with fury and anger and newfound resentment.

Mickey ducked from the attack. His hands held onto the cork of the jug. The blot inside of it came closer towards the front of the jug as if it has been waiting years for this to happen. The grin on Mickey’s face looked almost demonic in comparison to Oswald’s rage, and the possessed toon tore the cork from the jug.

The blot is finally free.

* * *

A pained scream uttered out of the mouse, and he instinctively reached for his chest, reached for the chest that is aching with the kind of pain that is unbearable. It hurt like he has dipped his entire body in thinner. It hurt as if someone were to place their hand into a vat of lava. It hurt with the intensity that is _impossible_ to describe, and it hurt so badly that Mickey isn’t sure if he is sobbing along with his screaming.

No longer can he hear the comforting noise of his heartbeat. No longer can he feel the warmth of his heart. He was just like any other toon in Wasteland; heartless. He might have control over his body now, but it was at the cost of losing his heart.

He felt a hand grab the back of his head, and he squinted through his tears to find the rabbit holding him in his lap. He can already tell that the rabbit is shaking, shaking as darkness swirled around both of them. The sky was now haunted with the presence of the blot, and, for the first time, Mickey can feel what loss is like.

The loss of his heart. The loss of the battle. He can now understand that this is how his brother must have felt for years. It hurt. It hurt so much and he can find himself weeping again, and Oswald held him close despite learning the truth, as he is now the tether to keep his brother from falling. He has to keep him grounded, or the loss of control would happen again.

He won’t let it happen again.

His grip on Mickey tightened. Despite how hopeless the situation might be, he is going to find some way to solve it. He knows that Mickey can do it despite his dilemma. All it would take is a plan. Hopefully, a plan that would be able to destroy the blot.

He carried his brother in his arms and headed back to safety.

“Don’t worry, Mick. _I got you.”_


	2. The Encouragement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um - I didn't expect to continue this like at all. I originally was just gonna have it as a one-shot kind of deal, but I thought since the storyline of this is close the end of the continuity of the game, I thought why not create a few more chapters of this and see how things are different in this storyline lol. Tbh I had a lot of fun writing this out even though it tugged my heartstrings and made me wanna hug the brothers even more so (plus I really liked how this one turned out). So here is the second part and more Mickey angst; enjoy!

He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why, he didn’t know how in the realm of Wasteland he ended up heading back here, but here he is, standing with the ridges of his iconic shoes nailing against the dust-coated floorboards of the lair. The lair of the first forgotten toon. The lair of his dear lost brother. The lair of the toon he was never told about. The lair of the lucky rabbit that he has caused so much pain and suffering to his beloved home.

 _Oswald’s lair._ There were old posters that had several titles scribbled across them, each detailing a certain adventure, and all of them had a smiling rabbit on them. A smile that isn’t usually seen anymore... because of him. Him, him, _him._ It had to be all because of him. For each time he has caught a glimpse of those posters, he felt they were glaring at him. They were _mocking_ him. Mocking him for what he failed to do. Mocking him for failing the land that he has destroyed.

_You did this to him. You did this to him. You did this to his home. You did this to the forgotten toons. You did this to all the ones you have cared for. Your newfound friends now hate you because of it. Your friends back home would hate you. You would be forgotten too, all because of a mistake._

_Mistake, mistake, mistake, mistake -_

A plethora of screens was the second thing the mouse noticed, and all it took was one look for him to tug at the ends of his pants with his gloved fingertips. None of the screens showed the exact same thing happening simultaneously. Instead, it was all different things. All different _events._ All different ones that it made Mickey drag himself closer to them, just enough that the blue luminescence coming from them started outlining his figure.

One screen showed the entirety of Wasteland drowning in thinner. One screen showed Dark Beauty Castle crumbling from the sight of Mean Street, with each citizen staring at the screen as if they were seeing Mickey through the glass. One screen showed his darling love, his girlfriend, reaching a palm towards the screen, and they were tears sitting at the borders of her eyes. It all caused Mickey to reach a hand of his own towards the screen, slapping his hand across the glass as if hoping to reach Minnie. He wanted to see her again, he wanted to wrap his arms around her, and hold her and keep her safe and make sure this _never_ happens again -

The distinct creaking noise of a chair swiveling caught his attention. He removed his hand from the screen. A paintbrush magically appeared in his hand, and the tip of it dripped blue paint. It was a comforting sight. It was a relieving sight. And if blue wisps of guardians showed up, it would only make this much more relieving than stressful. Smiling and hugging the brush as if thankful it didn’t switch to thinner was incredibly short-lived, as the one who turned the chair started removing himself from it.

The expectation could have been Oswald, and it could have been anything. An Oswald that had the ferocity of a thousand suns and an uncontrollable urge to steal his brother’s heart. An Oswald that replaced every bit of his toon self and replaced it with metal and animatronics. An Oswald from a parallel universe that has done the same mistake, as if this whole sequence was a warning to Mickey, and as if he was telling him that it only goes downhill from here.

...But none of that could have prepared him for _this._ It wasn’t Oswald who was previously sitting in the chair that resembled those unmistakable ears. It wasn’t any alteration of Oswald either. Instead, it was like looking at a mirror. A mirror that resembled a counterpart with eyes the color of corrosive acid, and with the entirety of that magical brush drenched in thinner. Blob-like drippings rise from the form, and it all came in such a rate that it looked like this double was melting; dissolving. _Mutating._

The distorted form inched a centimeter towards the frightened mouse, a ghost of a smile forming on that stoic face.

“Why so frightened? Isn’t this what you’re _supposed_ ta be?”

The cold, smooth material of the glass of those screens touched the back of Mickey’s head as he stepped back, and he sprawled his arms across the haunting images that played right behind him. He didn’t see that all of those screens changed to show the blot. That thing he _created._

He couldn’t move any further, except when it came to raising his brush, and he did it so when his wrist started shaking. If he could, he could blast paint at this counterpart of his. Maybe some paint will do him some good. Yeah. It wasn’t like that paint was harmful or anything. It _couldn’t_ have been.

“I’m not supposed ta be anythin’ like that!” he tried to interject, even when he felt like he got cat on his tongue, “I’m - I’m not some scrapper! I wouldn’t hurt anybody on purpose!”

The darkened almost obscured face of the other mouse tilted his head to the side. His melting fingers traced the thinner-coated brush, stroking it as if it were some sacred jewel hidden in the depths of a forbidden jungle. A hum came from him, and he pointed the brush as well.

“Wouldn’t hurt anybody on purpose? But don’t we all do that? No matter how good you say you are, somebody always ends up getting hurt. It could be by your hands. Like...” He paused to tap a finger to his chin, which started dripping white paint. “Oh... I dunno... _the Thinner Disaster?”_

Two words. It only took those _two words_ for a line to spread throughout the floorboards of the lair. It crawled among each section of the floorboards, spreading around like a spider’s web. Some posters were falling off from the walls, and a couple of toys have slammed against the floor, which caused Mickey’s breath to hitch.

He shook his head. “I didn’t cause the disaster on purpose!”

The counterpart’s face scrunched up at that. The creasing of those beady eyes was shown, and with one single step, one of the floorboards was chipped off and has fallen into this colorless void of an abyss. That abyss was completely absent of any kind of color except for black. Like _ink._

Each step bounced off the walls, but it wasn’t the sound of footsteps. It was like a squelching noise, like if you were to drop the entirety of your feet in mud. The steps left yellow footsteps to taint the floor, and it only made Mickey truly realize that this other form of him really _is_ melting.

Scrawny fingers cupped the disturbed mouse, getting fingerprints of white paint to cling onto his cheeks. The hold made this whole situation even worse when the thinner-using doppelganger inched forward. His other hand gripped onto the wrist that’s holding the paint-coated brush, and it was in such a grip that it was like it was being glued onto there.

 _“Did_ you?” The voice that came out of this monstrous form sounded like it was an old, creaking door, and distorted, chipped, and mangled in a way that it was difficult to listen to that iconic, high-pitched voice. It was all garbled and hardly decipherable like another being was slipping through the cracks. “Everyone makes mistakes, Mickey. But there are only so many mistakes before you get somebody hurt. After all... all it took was that monster you created... and then the jug... and all of those toons had to be swimmin’ in thinner -”

 _“Stop it!”_ The shrill voice of Mickey interrupted, and it was on the verge of tears. Tears of guilt. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean to -”

“But everyone in Wasteland was hurt. _Badly_ hurt.”

There was nothing to argue about that. Nothing at all. It was that lack of response that made the floorboards surrounding him tear piece by piece, and the darkness from the holes started becoming more visible. It wasn’t long until he felt himself slip, the paintbrush abandoned and collapsing onto the floor, and he was being dragged into the void.

And when the figure of that cruel form of himself was gone, the presence of the blot was much stronger. Massive, clawed hands grabbed a hold of his shoulders as if pinning him down, and with one fingertip reaching closer to his chest, that was when he knew what the blot was looking for...

_His heart._

Metallic binds clung to his wrists and ankles. He was back on that trap back on Dark Beauty Castle, when that Mad Doctor was trying to plunge his heart out. Only, now, there was darkness surrounding him and the blot. The blot’s fingertip served as a plunger. It continued tugging and tugging and tugging and tugging and -

_“Mick!”_

Until that voice bathed everything in white.

* * *

On the other side, in reality, instead of dreamland, the rabbit was clinging onto the sweat-soaked shoulders of his brother, who seemed to be coughing out torrents of a breath he choked on and is trying to focus on the details of the replica of his house. The touch of bare fingertips digging into the trembling shoulders could have created a scare, but it only motivated Mickey to slink his arms around Oswald’s waist and bury his face into his chest.

Oswald didn’t mind. He didn’t mind a lot of things about the mouse anymore. It was a nightmare having to carry his brother through the projector leading to Ostown, and it pained him to see the scenery of his town covered in... these bizarre things the blot placed down. ‘Bloticles,’ as Gus called them. They are starting to drain all the paint of Wasteland, and as much as Oswald would have loved to vamoose, he had to be there for the one who can solve that problem.

Even if that endeavor with the possession and the jug happened. It almost made him want to pop one of his ears off and slap himself across the face for losing his cool back there. He knew he shouldn’t have let his feelings come in the way of things, but it was just that sentence that really threw him off. It was like being told that one of the many things you would have blamed on someone coming true, and having to face the facts of it.

And despite how he couldn’t afford to be angry at Mickey anymore, it was still quite the pill to swallow. His brother, his _own brother,_ caused the Thinner Disaster. But... it couldn’t have been on purpose, now couldn’t it? It wasn’t like he thought to cause a reckoning would be such a swell idea and decided to get in there just to get his heart stolen. And it wasn’t like the blot would have controlled him at that time. He would have asked if it wasn’t for the crushed expression casting on the mouse’s face. And even then, there were still more important things to take care of.

One hand of his removed itself from one shoulder, and he traced his fingers across the back of the toon’s head, silently hoping that could bring some comfort to this solemn situation.

“...Hey, Mick? Are you... are you doin’ okay?” _Not - not that I care or anything,_ he would have added.

There were sniffles heard from the little guy. He didn’t seem to have the effort to lift himself from the embrace, let alone to gather his brush or anything. He still didn’t want to show his face. He just couldn’t show his face. How can he show his face now that the truth has slipped out? How can he show his face to Gus, let alone anyone now that the truth has been told?

How can he be this shining hero on a pedestal, worshiped, after he has caused _so_ much pain?

He didn’t leave Oswald hanging though, as his response came out soft and muffled. “My - my chest doesn’t hurt anymore.”

A relieved sigh was responded back, and it was in such a lighthearted manner that it made the guilt-ridden sibling raise his head just to stare at his older sibling, who took the time to cup one of his cheeks and wipe the tears that have streamed down his face like rivers. It was a thing that Oswald often did for his kids when they're upset, and he had hoped that it would work for Mickey in his emotionally fragile state.

He rubbed circles on the trembling back, and the most he can conclude from a pale face and a shaking form was a nightmare. Whatever it was it must be anything but pleasant. He can share that sentiment. He could hardly dream the same way anymore without thinking about Ortensia.

_Please let her inert self be safe._

“G-good...” he stuttered, holding Mickey even closer than before. This wasn’t a protective hold; no way. He sighed in relief the second time. _“Good...”_

He knew it wasn’t the most ideal, but he moved from side to side as he figured the other toon would need some motion to stir him from this emotional turmoil, or something to let all those untapped feelings out before heading back into the battlefield. The springs of the bed chimed with each motion, but the chiming synced in with the humming that uttered from Oswald.

The humming has caused the speed of the rising ink droplets from Mickey to slow down gradually, and he removed his head from the heartless chest of his brother to just stare at those closed eyes and a calm expression on his face. It almost seemed uncanny to see such a calm, relaxed look on Oswald, and, admittedly, the humming kind of made him feel embarrassed.

It was like he was a child being sung to by his mother, but... even with the second-hand embarrassment, he found the singing to be soothing. Comforting. Like that fragment of the blot inside of him has eased for a minute. It reminded Mickey of how birds would be singing at sunrise, or how Minnie would be humming while cooking up a recipe.

Gosh, he missed her _so_ much. He missed home _so_ much.

Instead of dwelling on the negatives, or the nightmare he had, or of anything else, he turned his attention to Oswald. “Hey...” He cleared his throat so that it wouldn’t croak anymore. “...What are you singin’?”

That stirred Oswald from his sudden calm demeanor, and he coughed into one of his fists, feeling his cheeks burn from embarrassment too. Oh man, that was noticed? That sweet, soft humming was _noticed?_ So much for trying to act so macho. It was a good thing his wife didn’t see this or he wouldn’t hear the end of it from her (though, he would have wanted her to be here with him, no matter the teasing and embarrassment).

“O-oh...” he muttered, his ears drooping a little, “It was... it was somethin’ Ortensia would sing to the kids whenever they got nightmares. I... I thought... since you just had one, I thought -”

He didn’t expect the next thing to happen. He would have expected Mickey to just let out a hum of acknowledgment and cling back onto him. He would have expected Mickey to just allow him to sing some more. He would have expected him to just do anything like that, but he blinked the second he found a crooked smile on that tear-stained face.

And before, that smile used to be something he couldn’t stand. He used to find that smile to be something too perfect. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t perfect. Mickey _wasn’t_ perfect. He wasn’t this guy who would be worshiped all the time. He was just a guy like anybody else. He was just a toon like anybody else.

And now that smile was like a small miracle in the midst of all of this chaos.

A stuffy chuckle came from Mickey, and this time, that iconic laugh was genuine rather than forced. Mickey smeared the rest of his tears off of his cheeks, and his smile widened the more he looked at his brother.

“I... I like it, Oswald. No wonder yer kids liked it.”

And like a second miracle, a smile appeared on Oswald’s face. It was the first one that was seen from Mickey’s point of view. The first genuine, happy one instead of one that could be mischievous or scheming or otherwise. It was a smile that could be cherished and Mickey would cherish it until the end of time.

Oswald snorted, chuckling as well and gave a nod. _“Thanks.”_

That small moment of comfort dissipated the second Gus appeared, and truth to be told, the gremlin wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real or not. He couldn’t remember the last time he has seen Oswald smile, but he figured that even when the mouse is sulking, he can bring in the smallest of miracles.

He cleared his throat. “I have checked the perimeter. It seemed that the ‘bloticles’ have swarmed all over Wasteland. We’re not only going to have to clear them out but... we have to find a way to get rid of the blot as well.”

Oswald bit his lip at the mention of the blot. That darn thing that stole his brother’s heart (even if he too tried to steal his... heart. He tried not to think on it too much). “It’s even bigger than I remember. That thing ain’t gonna be an easy task to take care of.” He huffed a frustrated sigh. “It’s _hopeless.”_

Mickey attempted to ignore the voice of the blot speaking about how he has failed more and more, or of that twisted version of himself in his nightmare speaking about the mistakes he made. “...Wha about the rocket parts?”

Oswald shook his head and made a ‘tsk’ sound with his mouth. “The rocket is useless. Remember what I said? No one can get out of here without that heart.”

Mickey raised a brow. _“No one?”_

The guilt of stealing his brother’s heart resurfaced. Oswald wished it would just go away. “It - it doesn’t matter right now, Mick. We can’t get out of Wasteland and it’s not like we can fight that storm. It’s impossible to reach.”

That activated a light bulb on the top of Mickey’s head, and instead of heading back into his previous moping state, he leaned forward towards his brother and the gremlin, smirking at his sudden idea. “Not without a _rocket,_ that is.”

The gloomy atmosphere in the bedroom changed drastically. Gus slapped one of his fists onto his hand. “That’s it! We can bring the fight to the blot!”

Oswald cupped his chin into his hand, allowing a moment for that idea to sink in, but he sighed in defeat as he came to his own conclusions. “As much as I would want it to, that won’t defeat the blot. It could regain its strength from the bloticles and that would give it all the paint it needs.”

Mickey didn’t allow him to give up and jabbed a thumb to himself. “I’ll take care of the bloticles!” He then pointed to Oswald. “You fix the rocket!”

And for just a moment, Oswald thought that the whole moment of his brother sulking was just an afterthought. That moment seemed so different than the one that’s happening right now. He looked stunned and clasped his hands together in his lap. “But... could we _really...”_

Yes. Yes, they can. If the blot was sucked into that jug before, then this could work. It has to work. There was nothing else to lose, after all. And while the looming threat of the blot taking control over Mickey is still lingering, it can be worth the risk.

He removed himself from the bed, a smile returning to his face. “Sure! Gimme the parts and meet me at the rocket in Tomorrow City!” He then charged out of the house without another thought, but before he swung the door open, he took one last look at his brother.

“And... Mickey...” He locked eyes with him. _“Good luck.”_

And with those words, they were the only motivation Mickey needed to continue forward.


	3. The Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fic has been recommended now; yay! I just found that out this morning and that made me ecstatic to keep writing this story and giving me all the motivation I need to continue it. Now here we go into chapter 3, where things are really starting to get intense. If you thought things would get easier for Mick here, oh boy, things are gonna get even harder for the poor boy from here (which means even more Mickey angst lol).
> 
> Anyway, here we go into the third chapter! :D

Was it possible to feel as if the physical form of your body has been swelling with determination _and_ apprehension at the same time?

It was something that the iconic toon felt the second his fingers curled around the doorknob of the identical replica of his home, and it was possible to tell that the doorknob itself was shuttering under his grip. Its noise pierced through the still air of the house, and the only two other toons that could watch the paintbrush-wielder struggle were his telephone and Gus.

It occurred to him that despite the words that his long-lost brother has spoken to him, despite how each of them was drenched in truth and comfort and encouragement, he was taking a step _backward._ A step backward that would leave him like a statue, and remaining there until he has grown wilted and started to crumble into a countless amount of jagged pieces.

It could have been just the fright of the blot taking control of him again. He - he didn’t want that. Mickey didn’t want that. The blot has immense strength now, now in possession of his heart, and even so, in possession of him as well. It wouldn’t be so difficult to yank one of those strings connecting to both of them again, and then all the mouse would see is green.

Green. Thinner. Acid. Destruction. Ruin. Devastation. Terror. Horror. Fear. Betrayal.

A hand touched against his own, stirring him from his thoughts. He didn’t realize how even the slightest touch of physical contact was enough for him to see that he was running out of breath. He didn’t realize how his fingers were slipping from the doorknob due to sweat alone. And most of all, he didn’t realize how much precious little time has been wasted because he decided to freeze up again.

Gus met his fearful eyes, and like a wise old father that would comfort a child from facing their fears, he patted the back of his hand in soft, comforting slaps. It wasn’t anything to cause pain, but it was something to snap the mouse out of his sudden fearful trance (it was _twice_ that has happened now). His face scrunched with concern.

“Mickey, I know this is terrifying for you.” He spoke so softly. Light as a feather. “I know the Blot has a stronghold on you.” He demonstrated that sentence by his free hand clenching. “But you can’t let this fear get a hold of you either. As long as Oswald and I are by your side, we’ll make sure you won’t get controlled again.”

A soft smile showed up on his face, and Mickey couldn’t tear himself away from it. Not for a second. “I _promise_ you.”

All of the soft puffs of air that was emitted from Mickey, from both the nose and the mouth, were slowing down their speed, and the drippings that are hanging from his form started to not make him appear as if he’s melting. It was something he didn’t think about yet, but if every single time a negative emotion is expressed, those drippings are there. They were always there, but the dripping would be worsening second by second.

And during all of this, Gus and Oswald have been _preventing_ that from happening. To prevent him from falling into that mental trap again. To prevent the Blot from influencing him again. It was their way of pulling him from the darkness, and to never be submerged into it again.

Although, the swirling, inking mess inside of him would have stated otherwise.

_Promises can’t be kept, Gus._

He blocked that thought into the deepest corners of his mind. No. Not now. No more stalling. No more of that Blot messing with his head. No more of having to deal with this fear of being controlled. A job has to be dealt with, and it is taking care of the Bloticles. It might be the beginning of an endless, tiring battle, but it was something that Mickey would fight tooth and nail over.

_For Wasteland._

A small inhale was taken in, and Mickey closed his eyes just for a moment. A moment to feel inner peace. A moment to feel that determination from earlier settling in again. A moment to have Oswald’s words play in his head again. A moment to have Gus’ words play in his head. The tension he had on the doorknob was loosened, and the noises of shuttering were no longer heard. It was only the madness from outside that has been causing a racket.

An exhale pushed out, and now, Mickey stood firm. The brush that is held within his hand is now covered in that comforting color of blue. It won’t be long until those tints, those paint guardians, would start swirling around him again, and that, along with his friend and brother, is enough for him to continue going.

It was kind of funny how before, all he thought about was heading back home. All he thought about was helping others. All he thought about was righting his wrong. Fixing his mistake. And now, he has found something special. Something so special that he couldn’t trade it for anything else, and it is right here in Wasteland.

A home away from home.

A beaming smile worked its way onto his lips, and he creaked the door open without a second thought. One shoe of his stepped out on the front porch, and a narrowed look in his eye was directed at the chaos that is seen right in front of him. The thoughts he heard about, one, in particular, was right about _one_ thing:

He won’t let Wasteland down.

“Let’s finish this.”

* * *

Bloticles.

They were something that somehow made Mickey’s stomach lurch at the sight of them. All of the ones that have invaded the small town of Ostown have been ridiculously long, containing the color of coal-black, and dripping miniature drops of ink, whether that could have created blotlings and other minions, Mickey did not know.

What he _did_ know now was how much damage these gnarled tentacles have caused. Ostown might be small, but it was such a town that was unmistakable due to its vibrant, rich, and bright colors. The soft colors would bring warmth to the ones residing here, and even if the toons here were gloomy due to the disaster, they still had the normalcy of their lives to cheer them up.

But not anymore. The bloticles that swarmed the land has sucked out the majority of the colors here like a leech. Flowers that were standing tall from being healthy and taken care of by Clarabelle has become wilted, and the grass blades that surrounded it were now in this sad color of gray than that bright color of green. Somehow, all of the color devoid from this town has made it much sadder than before.

A voice in the back of Mickey’s head came crawling back, and it was ready to take pleasure in the mouse’s pain.

_Remember. You caused this._

The grip he had on the brush tightened more than it has ever before. The tips of it, still coated with paint, pointed towards one of the bloticles. The glare he had towards the bloticles was so aggressive that it might as well stun to pull that off, but he was tired. He was _tired_ of hearing that voice berating him with every chance it’s got. It’s time to fight back.

“Yer right. I _have_ caused this.” His shoes clapped against the pavement, now closing the gap between him, the bloticles, and the blotlings that have scurried around the place. “But... that doesn’t mean I can’t fix it.”

A stream of blue liquid gushed from the brush, hitting straight against the bloticle right in front of him. The paint splashed against the pimple that was propped on the tentacle, in hopes that just drowning it in the liquid would be able to have it popped. It took about a minute or so, but the bloticle that was attacked remained where it was standing.

Like if nothing were to hit against it at all.

A heel slide back. Mickey blinked. _No._ No, that _can’t_ be right. No matter what would have happened, if he were to use paint, then something would have turned around, now wouldn’t it? The paint was used to purity something, to create, and it worked so well on the clocktower beforehand...

So... why isn’t it working _now?_

He aimed the brush at the blotlings instead, hoping that encasing them in paint, making them friendly, would be something that would distract him from that concerning realization. The blotlings that clawed at his legs for the last minute were now clinging onto his ankles with joy, as the effect of the paint has made them friendly.

He almost jumped out of his form the second he heard a guttural laugh, still distorted and mangled and unnatural, has rattled the inside of his head, and in his ears like some auditory illusion. His skin crawled, and he would have covered his big ears if it weren’t for this being in his head.

_What? You thought that paint would work against this? Try again. After all, your brother said that the paint from these bloticles would make me... stronger._

The response made his paint run cold. It made the hand that was holding the brush felt like it had been dipped into arctic waters, and would be covered in frost and soon would end up frozen like stone. Like the hand would become inert unlike the rest of his body. It made the toon shake his head, and out of everything, from the fear, from the realization, from the change he would have to do, denial was bursting at the front of it all with no hesitation.

“N-no.” He stared at the brush. His beady eyes dilated. “I can’t. I - I-” The blue that was drenching the brush would have to be replaced. By green. “I don’t - I don’t want -” The brush switched to thinner. “I don’t want to - I _don’t_ want to do this.”

_Then you’ll be letting Wasteland down. You don’t want that... don’t you?_

Mickey felt his breath hitching. _“No.”_

_Then use the thinner._

That slender arm of his was raised once again, and the tip of it was currently dripping with green. That acidic, damaging green. The thinner from the brush started dousing the tentacle, now completely drowning not only the pimple with it but the entirety of the tentacle. The tentacle curled under the touch of the thinner, and it wilted just like the flowers did, now becoming disintegrated into nothing more but a pool of ink and thinner.

It wasn’t for the fact that the thinner has been used again. It wasn’t for the fact that using it unnerved Mickey to the absolute core. It was that, for that moment of using that thinner, it was not him who raised his arm. It was not him who decided to destroy that bloticle in that manner. It was not him who did that action that caused blobs of ink to rise from his head.

It _had_ to be from the Blot inside of him. There was no other way around it.

The next thing came in such a blur. A loud thwack echoed off into the mouse’s circular ears, now making his sense of hearing to become dulled and filled with this grating static that sounded all too like it came from a television set. The grating was enough to start pounding on his head, and he didn’t notice how bad it was getting until he plopped down onto the ground, his head and his back aching the most from that impact.

His chest tightened. It tightened like everything else inside of it has been squeezed together. It tightened that the pressure was plummeting on it altogether, and it hurt in such a way that the beast inside of him was squirming. He didn’t know that it could even squirm like that, let alone inside of him.

His arms instantly wrapped around his chest. His knees guarded it against anything else, and from that moment on, the little guy was curling up from all of this unbearable pain. It hurt. It hurt so bad. It could have hurt just as much as when his heart was pulled out, or... or even _worse._

_“Mickey!”_

The voice of the gremlin hardly reached his ears. The weight that has been added onto his shoulders, by two small hands, brushed against him as if those hands weren’t on him at all. It was like this pain has devoid his feeling of touch, or that it numbed everything else out. It could have been why Gus’ voice sounded like it came from miles upon miles away.

“...Gus?”

_I forgot to mention. When you use the thinner against me, it hurts you as well. Aren’t you grateful that we have a connection?_

“Mickey, are you alright? What happened?”

The frantic tone of Gus has been silenced the second Mickey’s arm moved again. The thinner-coated brush aimed for the other bloticles, and for every single hit, the more pain Mickey felt. Yet, at the same time, there was some sort of ugly satisfaction that came from drowning the bloticles with thinner too.

The sensation was the only kind of salvation that he could get from this pain. It was so... _strange._ It was so disgusting. It was so horrific. Terrifying. How can something so wrong feel so right at this moment? It was plaguing his body with every single chance it gets, and now, it had to ensnare him at the time where he is miserable.

Whatever the Blot is planning, it was unpredictable at best.

A collection of green swirls wrapped around his body. Turps. Thinner guardians. They swirled around him at such a rate that it was making his head spin. The headache he has been receiving was splitting, and it would be cracking his skull in who knows how many different ways. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to control his arm again. He wanted to be able to move forward.

It was just this Blot has made more of an obstacle than he _ever_ thought it would.

He was unaware that from that moment of losing control that there wasn’t just thinner coating the bloticles and eradicating them. Bits and parts of Ostown have been touched by the thinner as well. Some of the streetlamps, some of the houses, and maybe a bit of it has sliced through Ortensia’s house.

All of the pain from destroying the bloticles and all of the exhilarating feeling from using the thinner mixed like oil and water, and it mixed in such a fashion that it was all too overwhelming for the mouse to handle. All of his surroundings were blurred and all of the shapes looked like everything was filtered with watercolor. The most he can make out was a worried expression on Gus’ face, and his calls of concern and urgency fell on deaf ears.

_You’ve taken care of the bloticles at Ostown, but at what cost?_

A groan of pain managed to slip past, and as much as Mickey desperately wanted to push on, this was all too much. It was too much. It was too much that he wasn’t sure if he can move a single muscle without screaming out in anguish. And, most of all, the fact that thinner was used wasn’t soothing at all...

_You want me to take the helm? I would gladly._

_No..._

_You’re in no condition... but I am._

It was the last thing he heard before everything went black.

* * *

Change.

It was funny how things would automatically _change._ It was funny how things could change in so many different ways. That a mouse that has been dragged into this world, the world that he has tarnished, has been fixing his mistakes with every single chance he’s gotten. That this mouse, going through thick and thin, has decided to learn from his mistake and try to fix it.

It was something that Oswald couldn’t help but find himself admiring about his brother. Huh. _Admire._ That was something he never would have thought would be used when it came to his thoughts on Mickey. It all used to be just devious, numerous thoughts on trying to steal his heart, take the rocket and escape Wasteland.

With his bushy tail in between his legs.

It didn’t occur to him until recently on just how ridiculous and desperate and wrong that plan of his was. That all he did was encourage the mouse to get the rocket parts just so he could accomplish his biggest plan: To take that heart. To leave his brother, abandon him like he has been abandoned, and fly off in his rocket to where he thought would be sanctuary and satisfaction.

All of those thoughts made him want to shrink away now. It made one of his palms clasped against his chest and squeezed the paint-like flesh from it. If he were to still have a heart, it would have been yanked in a heartbeat if he were to continue squeezing (but that was only in exaggeration). Staring at the rocket now was only a painful reminder of what things could have been, and of how things have drastically changed.

Who knew that the Blot controlling his brother like a puppet could result in a change of heart?

At the corner of his eye, he spotted the two toons that have ambled among Tomorrow City, but from the moment the lift of the elevator dropped down to meet them, he could feel his stomach dropping like an anvil. It dropped and it dropped down hard. He was sure his breath was lodged in his throat.

 _“Don’t do this.”_ An accented voice tore through the silence in a frenzy. The small figure of Gus was hovering over towards the taller one, whose stature was nothing more but still. _Cold_. Seemingly frozen. The darkened face of the mouse, now obscured by the shadows of this advanced place, was enough to unnerve the rabbit. “Mickey, you need to snap out of it! Listen to me!”

The lucky rabbit pulled out his remote, scratching the edges of it as his nerves have escalated. He didn’t move a step forward nor back. He remained where he is standing, but all he did was lean to get a closer look at his little brother. Something is not right. Something’s _not_ right, and he has a lump in his throat to prove it.

The mouse lifted his head, and all it took was that for Oswald to immediately get the picture on why Gus is panicking, and it was all he needed to clutch the remote even harder. This was not his brother, and yet... just the look of this melting toon has him _quaking._

It was green-tinted eyes that stared at him back. A distorted voice haunted his ears.

_“Hello, Oswald.”_


	4. The Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that feeling when you're nervous about how the beginning was set up but as you write along you felt satisfied with it? Yeah, that's me with this chapter lol.
> 
> This is either my shortest one or it's around the same length of the previous ones. Either way, the fight I thought about wasn't as grand as I wanted it to be, but I hoped the stuff in the chapter makes up for it. Anywho, onward with the next chapter!

It has been _years._

Several years that has been counted. One by one, it was each minute, each hour, each month, and each year that has been viciously torn off from the calendar as if none of it truly mattered anymore. As if the concept of having months and years was nonexistent, but the only thing that really managed to surpass that all was vengeance.

Vengeance was the _one_ thing that has sunk into the depths of the rabbit’s mind, and all of it was toiling, bubbling, and erupting in such a fashion that it could have resembled the fury of a volcano, to which would have blown molten rocks skyward and pelt the unaware creatures of the ocean. It would have been the type of vengeance that would not only inflict the king, but his subjects as well... and it might already _have._

It was years that he has been locked inside of his own lair that has been right at the top of the mountain filled with junk that marred the face he despised, and it was years he waited for that one moment, that one, precious little moment to cleave off that smile right off the mouse’s face and to become the star, to become the one who deserved adoration, and the one to become worshiped and special and -

...Who knew that after _all_ this time, after desperately waiting, desperately craving for that moment, that eventual fight, is going to be the same kind of fight that would have sent a dagger straight to his currently nonexistent heart? That it made everything pause at such a stand still that it was impossible for him to move? That it was that pair of thinner-coated eyes that wrenched his gut in so many different ways that he has never experienced before?

Who knew that now, it was hard to even take a small peek at the one standing before him, this disfigured, melting form of a toon that vaguely resembled his brother, and he cursed his creator for being able to have a piece of sympathy for the mouse, because now, as much as he would rather become inert himself than to face off Mickey, he knew he had no choice.

It was either defeating the Blot... or being the one _defeated._ And Oswald was no quitter.

It was this time that he has finally urged himself to take a step forward, although the apprehension is seeping into his body like a poisonous venom, like as if the thinner from that magical paintbrush has already started entering his system. His movement was filled with tension _so_ thick that it could have swirled around the atmosphere much like the turps that swirled around Mickey. He can feel his ears sticking onto his back due to how much he’s sweating, but he can’t let this worry take over him now. He _can’t._

“Gus...” he began, miraculously not tripping over himself with syllables, “...What happened? I-I thought... I thought you - I thought _he_ got this under control...”

Gus’ hands were fidgeting, slipping through one another due to his own sweat. Even his floating appeared to be off, like as if he was... limping. That didn’t make Oswald feel any better about the situation. Still, the gremlin attempted to keep himself composed, unlike the moment that transpired before arriving Tomorrow City. “I... he did... until he started attacking the bloticles with thinner...”

 _Thinner._ It was that one word that has flowed into the king’s ear and right out the other, but it wasn’t ignored. It was latched onto and it made all of that apprehension strengthen in a way that made it hard to stand, to think, to breathe, or to fight. Yet Oswald carried on. He had to. He dragged his teeth against his bottom lip, and his beady eyes traveled towards Gus, then Mickey, and then to the platform that they are all standing on. The platform that would serve as the battlefield to this upcoming fight.

It didn’t take any hints nor questions nor answers for Oswald’s mind to click onto what Gus was implying. It was obvious that thinner played a vital role when it comes to the usually joyful mouse, and it played a role in his actions and his thoughts. There was no doubt that the Blot had some part to play into this as well, and it turned all of that apprehension into anger. It turned all of that previous vengeance into a different form of vengeance. It would no longer be pinned onto Mickey.

It was the Blot that deserved to be punished.

“You got some real nerve, yannow that?” The pitch Oswald used wasn’t like anything else that has come out of his mouth. It was low and it was low in such a manner that it was enough to startle the gremlin, like the voice that was coming from the rabbit didn’t match with his features. That it didn’t sound right, but at the same time, it kind of _did._ If voices could kill, that menacing ink inside of his dear brother would have torn out of him a mere minute ago.

The dainty red ball sticking out of the end of the remote was pointed at the mouse, who has not moved a single inch since his introduction. Whatever could be going inside of his head, Oswald wasn’t sure he wanted to find out or not. What he did want, however, was getting his brother back. One way or another.

His thumb hovered over the button on the remote, and if he were to press it, then all of the dominoes to this battle would fall into place. It would collapse into something that was forged between two brothers, but it didn’t feel like destiny. It didn’t feel rewarding. It didn’t feel something that would satisfy all of the heartache Oswald suffered over those years. In fact, it made it worse. How can something he wanted after all of this time be something he would regret doing? It hurt. It’s _going_ to hurt, but he has to keep his head strong.

He _has_ to.

He pressed the button. He had the urge to look away. He didn’t. An unreadable expression was cast on his face, and he mentally prepared himself to hear the high-pitched screams coming out from Mickey. Hearing the scream that happened when Mickey’s heart was taken out would be something that would haunt him, but to hurt him, to actually hurt him, he was sure enough this would stick with him for the rest of his life.

Electricity spilled out from the ball that was on the remote, its blinding, white light illuminating Oswald, and its flashes were enough to combine with the flickering lights of the futuristic city. The electricity came out in the shape of a forked tongue, soaring throughout the air and coming out like a bolt of lightning that had no rumbling thunder to arrive afterward. While Gus has managed to fly off and avoid getting hit, and Oswald stood into place, none of them noticed that the target wasn’t on the ground.

That vanished all of the anguish that Oswald has been dealing with, and he nearly had his remote slip out of his fingers once realization hit him. He whirled his head around, from left to right, his eyes frantically searching the area for any sign of the mouse. He can’t let that possessed toon attack the rocket with thinner, or else they would all be _doomed._

“Where -” His words were caught in his throat. “Where he go?” He focused on the rocket, as if hoping that just by looking at it, it won’t be destroyed. It didn’t calm his nerves as much as he wished it did. “G-gus, where did he -”

“Lookin’ fer me?”

Oswald hardly got the chance to turn around, to answer, to prepare himself, to defend himself, as the searing pain of something touching his arm, the one that has been holding the remote, has caused all of his motions to cease at once. Something dripped onto the ground, and he dropped along with it, using his free hand to hopefully close up the ink that is pouring out of his arm. He was now using his kneecaps as support, to get him to rise up and face his opponent, but his said opponent was right in front of him.

God that face. He couldn’t stand looking at it.

A face that has a smile so sinister that it didn’t belong to the one wearing it. All of the colors that usually appeared to be so vivid, colorful, and lively on Mickey was now muted, turning into a milky, dull kind of color than anything else. It made him appear sickly, looking pale or paler than usual, like all of the color has been drained from his face. And although that face had that smile, it was like it was straining. Like it was forced upon. If the other toons were to squint, they can see a hint of pain within those eyes.

Oswald didn’t know that destroying the bloticles would cause his younger brother pain, so all he could assume was that the real Mickey was hidden under all of that control. That the real Mickey was squirming inside of there, begging for all of this to stop. He wanted to do something, to help him, but he knows that Mickey has to help himself too.

Cooperation was _needed._

“I thought ya would’a brought more to th’ table, Oswald...” Mickey tsked with the click of his tongue, tapping one of his feet in disgruntlement. His half-lidded gaze mirrored that action, along with the frown. That didn’t look right on him. “But...” He leaned forward. “Beggers can’t be choosers, y’anno?” He pulled out his paintbrush, preparing to brandishing it. “And as much as I would like fer ya ta beg, hearin’ you scream is more worth - _AAAH!”_

His whole world was bathed in white, much like that horrendous nightmare he endured before encountering the bloticles. This time, instead of having Oswald release him from the horrors of his nightmare, he was brought to the ground by him, his arms and knees trembling with each volt of electricity bouncing within him and off him, and his fur was singed by a tad by the unexpected attack.

Black dots polkadotted his vision, and he could have sworn he felt his control flickering on and off. The glimmer of green in his eyes vanished and then reappeared, vanished and then reappeared. It flickered on like a light switch, as if the mental battle wasn’t over yet. His head started pounding again, and that voice was somehow _louder_ than the pain.

_Get up. We still have work to do. We still have a rabbit to take care of._

_Nggh... it hurts._

_I said get up. It’s either you turn into a crisp or he melts._

_Neither... I want neither._

_Suit yourself._

Oswald finally managed to stand up, huffing and puffing out pained gulps of air, and as he tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his arm, he inched forward towards the mouse, one of his hands now completely stained with the ink from his wound. “Didn’t expect that, didn’t ya?” His question would have had some snark, but it was completely absent. It was... sad. _“Mickey...”_ He sighed. “I know you’re in there somewhere. I know you won’t let this get to you...”

He held out his hand. Holding out a hand was commonly known as a sign of trust, a sign of devotion and care and understanding. It was also known as a sign that meant someone was branching out to help another. It was sign that Oswald trusts his brother, and that he trusts that his brother can get out of this. Somehow and someway.

“I believe in you, brother...”

An arm that was previously paralyzed started to move toward Oswald, reaching to clasp that hand, but it was pushed back. The other hand that was gripping the brush almost spewed out that acidic liquid, and it now caused a small hole to form on the platform. Mickey clenched onto that arm, holding that darn thing close to his chest as to avoid causing a total disaster. He didn’t want Oswald to perish. He didn’t want Gus to perish. He doesn’t want, he doesn’t want, he doesn’t want -

_Let me finish this._

_“NO!”_ His voice boomed from his vocal cords, stinging them with every fiber that he’s gotten. It echoed among the quiet and abandoned place of Tomorrow City, and it even made Oswald and Gus back away for a second. He was laying flat on the ground now, fussing with his arm, like the arm has a mind of its own.

“Don’t give up!” Oswald encouraged, pumping one of his fists toward his chest. It was probably the most uplifting thing he has said during all of this, and the most that comes to emotion. “I know it’s hard, I know it seems like it’s hopeless, but don’t you dare give up on me, Mickey!”

“You’ve come so far, don’t give up now!” Gus yelled out as well, and that thankfully silenced the thoughts that were swarming Mickey’s peace of mind. Or, at least, for a while.

The mouse was now on his stomach, now pinning the brush against his chest and hoping not a single drip of thinner has caught onto his skin. He lifted himself up by a smidgen, and he threw his head back. His forehead wasn’t that far from the platform below him, and he didn’t care for what this puppetmaster has to say about this.

_What are you doing!?_

He rammed his forehead against the ground. It caused such a thud that allowed the head pounding to increase tenfold, but this time, it was far more satisfying to feel that pain than anything else. He fell to his side, dropping the brush and now slapping his palms against his aching head. No longer can he hear that voice for now, and he would have laughed in relief if it wasn’t for the pain.

The one that laughed in a boisterous tone was Oswald instead, and tears have raced down his cheeks for the first time in years. He held Mickey close, holding him in his lap once again, and he tried nuzzling that aching forehead with his own.

“Mick, you idiot. You’re such an _idiot.”_

A raspy chuckle came from Mickey, who didn’t mind the brotherly affection at all. “So much fer not carin’, huh?”

“Heh, shaddup.”

It was a moment of peace before aiming themselves at the Blot with that rocket. Hopefully, it would be enough to take it out.

Hopefully.


	5. The Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I want to say thank you for Lishyp for all the kind comments I received from today! You really know how to make an author feel happy. Also thanks to apathetic-coffee for the first comment as well! I love your work! :D
> 
> I didn't expect to make this chapter the way it did, and I wanted it to be longer when it comes to the whole Dark Beauty Castle scene, but I decided to cut it short for the next chapter. This is also my favorite chapter to date writing-wise. There's a certain scene in this chapter where a certain mouse is gonna learn more about the Blot. Not spoiling it though lol. Anywho, on with the chapter!

It was the sight of the vessel that _unnerved_ him. It was the sight of the vessel that caused some unwarranted thoughts to emerge from his mind; ones that didn’t involve the small piece of inky behemoth inside of him. It all made him want to slap himself across the cheek for ever considering, when he still had his heart, to escape this ruined land that he has destroyed. To think that all he wanted to do was to trot away from this world, to once again escape his responsibilities, to leave the one place he has demolished in more ways than one, it... it all made him feel _sick_ inside.

_Wasteland isn’t the only thing you abandoned all those years._

His lip curled into a grimace, and he attempted to wrack through his brain to try to find what else he is missing. What is the last thing he left behind? He knew he harmed the folks of Wasteland, the forgotten toons, and he knew that Oswald was a big component in that factor but... what _else?_ It pained to think. It pained to think there was another person he abandoned.

_It will come in time. You’ll see._

He isn’t so sure he wanted to know or not. He isn’t so sure he is ready to have yet another realization pummel right on top of him. He strengthened his hold on his paintbrush, hoping that feeling the smooth wooden material of that stick was enough to stir him from his overwhelming thoughts. He could have wished he could ignore the Blot, but despite giving himself quite the bruise earlier, it was all for naught.

A bare hand clasped against his shoulder. He tensed. The voice beside him may have been calm, but he was anything but. “You ready to blow this popsicle stand, Mickey?” He averted his eyes from him completely. He didn’t need to see that the smile that was present on his brother’s face has faded. “...What’s wrong?”

His bony shoulders started digging into his cheeks, and suddenly, he felt a whole lot smaller than he usually is. He felt he was more than what could be described as pint-sized. He felt he was just a spec of paint and that everything was larger, far larger, and that gargantuan beast that swarmed the skies isn’t making him feel _any_ better about it. He would have wanted to tell Oswald what is bothering him, but there isn’t much time.

The rocket was _more_ important.

“Just -” He inhaled through his nose. One, two, three... “Jus’ nervous I guess.” Exhale. Four, five, six. Mentally counting could help. It could just help to either steel or ease those nerves.

_Six, five, four, three, two -_

“I mean... what if I - what if I lose control of myself again and - and-” Don’t give the Blot any ideas. “I don’t -” He turned back just to focus on the wound that’s on the rabbit’s arm. “I don’t want to hurt you more, Oswald.”

He felt another hand on his other shoulder. He didn’t have a moment to protest as he was dragged to stare right into the king’s eyes, to which are gleaming under the neon lights of Tomorrow City. So much of those lights highlighted the emotions that were usually buried under: The concern, the worry, the fear. It was all genuine, and it would have jabbed Mickey in the chest with guilt, guilt, and _more_ guilt if it weren’t for a finger pressing against his chest.

“So what if you _do?_ And even then, it wasn’t your fault, to begin with.” Mickey isn’t certain he can believe that. “That thing inside of you is _makin’_ you do all of this, is makin’ you hurt me, hurt everyone, and it won’t stop until it gets what it wants. But like I said before, Mickey...”

The pressing continued in three beats. “Don’t. Give. Up. Or I will kick your butt myself.”

A snort was provoked after that, and that unmistakable laughter sputtered out from the mouse, enough that he had to conceal his mouth from having all of those chuckles rack his body (although that was more pleasant than the Blot if he does say so himself). It was so odd to him that beforehand he was the one who was lifting Oswald’s spirits and now? Now, it’s the other way around.

It - it made him feel grateful to have met his brother in the midst of all of this.

He stepped inside the elevator. It was time to launch.

* * *

A fist slammed against the red button a multitude of times. It has been slammed so hard that it was starting to ache, but much like before, Oswald was no quitter. He didn’t care that the action was causing such a racket, and it wasn’t like his brother had much to complain about, as he was drumming his fingers in an effort for some distraction as he waited. The other toon managed to speak though, despite his dismay at being distracted.

“Did you forget to fuel?”

The question was hardly heard when the slamming was becoming much more of a racket than it was before, but it was more so out of frustration and impatience. This was not needed right now. He couldn’t have some invention of his malfunction now. A snarl reverberated in his throat, and he looked like he was about to whirl around and tell Gus _‘of course I fueled!’_ before a noise interrupted them all.

None of them got a chance to say anything. Steam pulsed out of the rocket as the vessel was launched into the sky and into the foreboding storm. The passengers and pilot were juttering about inside of it, resembling how a car would trespass through a rocky road. Mickey held onto the control panel while Oswald gripped onto the edge of his seat. He was too immersed in the situation to feel that Gus is gripping onto one of his ears.

“All right, we head for the heart!” He pointed towards a screen that showed a pixelated form of the Blot and a red dotted line that moved in the direction towards the heart inside of the Blot. Just the sight of it filled Mickey with determination - he wants his heart back. “When we get close, we’ll self-destruct!”

“That’s gonna hurt - just speaking personally.” He wasn’t sure if Gus meant that it was obvious enough that they were going to get hurt from the explosion or that he has experienced something like that before.

Neither of the siblings was sure of what that meant as tendrils that jutted out of the Blot’s palms started to pin themselves against the rocket. Much like the bloticles, the paint from the rocket was being absorbed. Just the feeling of it - the feeling of all of that pain from before is ebbing away - was all Mickey could feel as he sunk further into his chair. It still felt all sorts of wrong. He didn’t want to feel it, he didn’t want to feel this connection to the Blot, he _hated_ it, he -

“We’re losin’ th' hull!” he screamed, in both in acknowledgment and to block out the peculiar sensation flowing within his body. 

“The Blot is absorbin’ the paint!” Oswald responded just as quickly. His hands gripped tighter onto the handles, so much so that his fingers have started to feel numb, but he hoped this rocket won’t fail him now. He hoped he didn’t fail his friends now. He _had_ to keep going. Going for that heart.

“The rocket is held together with _paint!?”_ Gus’ words made him feel embarrassed though. He knew he could have replaced all of this paint by metal, but there was only so much that he could do with a measly budget - and time. _Especially_ when that time was scarce. He huffed.

“It was kind of a budget issue...”

Mickey and Gus exchanged a worried, incredulous look, although Mickey’s appeared more agitated and it was proven by the way he started gripping onto one of his ears. No, no, not another thing has to go to waste. Not another try to save Wasteland was all for nothing. Not another try was blown into their faces. Blown into _his_ face.

_It was just like your brother said... I’m impossible to reach._

_Shut... shut up._

An earsplitting commotion silenced more of those thoughts, and instead of the rocket heading for the heart, it started to plummet down. Without a second thought, Mickey wrapped his arms around the gremlin, and it felt bizarre to not have his heart beating against his chest in pure terror. The only thing that was akin to it was the rush of breaths that flown out from him. Oswald wished he could grab a hold of him again to calm him down, but he had to focus on getting them to safety.

“I’m losin’ her!” Exclaiming this didn’t help, yet it was all he could think about right now.

Gus clung onto his slightly bigger companion in return, and he could feel the air zooming out of Mickey. He started patting his shoulders, his cheeks, patting lightly on the bruise on his forehead, anything to prevent him from panicking any further, but how much can he do when he is panicking _himself?_

“Mickey, _calm down!”_

Mickey couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t. Gosh, he _couldn’t._ Is this how this is all going to end? Was he going to be perished by a rocket? Was this going to be the end of his brother while he remained, being fully controlled by the Blot? Was the Blot going to control him again? He can feel his fingers twitching. Gosh, they’re twitching. Oh gosh, they’re _twitching._ No, no, _no -_

_Say goodbye to your brother and friend._

_No!_

_“Wait!”_ A shout struck him, and he can see that no matter if this could be a life-threatening situation, Oswald managed to stay calm. Or, at least, is trying all he can to stay calm even if he is panicking on the inside. He couldn’t see on what was going on, on where Oswald could get them to end up in, but Oswald can see, he can get them out of this mess -

He has faith in him.

“I think we can reach -”

Another grating noise occurred. Oswald didn’t get a chance to finish. The scraping of paint sounded like nails on a chalkboard. The distant calls of Mickey’s name sounded faint. Everything faded into black.

All of that fear was erased. Only darkness arrived.

* * *

_Decay._

It was the most that he can describe what he is seeing. The sight of old stone that shaped up the massive pillars that aligned the dark hall. Several paintings laid before him, and each of them represented something that dug under his skin and made it crawl. It intensified that sick feeling from earlier.

A painting that detailed Ostown in nothing more but shambles. A whole map of Wasteland drenched in thinner that was sprawled across the wizard’s desk. A grinning, cruel mouse that stood among the ruins of the land, all while having a crown adorning his head. One that resembled the same crown that Oswald wore in that painting.

“Charmin’, _isn’t it?”_

Did he dare look? Did he dare turn around to face what is sitting on that throne? Did he dare to even take a single glimpse at it? Did he dare to see that disfigured form of his again? Did he dare to see that melting form of himself? He can feel those slimy fingers on his cheek. He shivered at the touch. Oh, gosh _no -_

“Get - get outta my head.” He didn’t mean to sound so defeated, but what else could he do when he’s wrapped up in this nightmare? “I want you outta my head.”

“Ohh... Michael, Michael, Michael...” The taunting was demeaning. It was even worse to hear it from his voice, albeit in a twisted manner. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. We are two sides of th’ same coin.”

 _“Malarkey.”_ He almost flinched at the sound of his voice. It was cold. Venomous. It was a type of anger he didn’t even know he possessed, but he knew why it was filled with such anger. He knew why it had such bark and it may eventually come with a devastating bite. He turned towards his double this time.

“We may have this darn connection but we _are_ different. You only want to hurt people. I _don’t.”_ His fingertips dug into his palms. The stress of his paint-like skin was starting to strain from that pressure, but he didn’t care. “The only similarity we have is that you are the Blot and I have a part of you inside of me. That’s _it.”_

He raised a hand to dug into his hammerspace. He needed his brush _now._ He hoped that it would have paint instead of thinner. “So forget with this whole _‘connection’_ nonsense.”

He would have expected a furious response. He would have expected to be beaten to a pulp by this twin of his. He would have expected to be melted in thinner and then the dream would end. But what he didn’t expect was the boisterous laughter that followed, and how it was that giggly laugh of his that sounded out of place. A few rumbles ravaged the decaying castle, and he inched backward to press against a nearby wall as one of those melting fingers brushed his nose.

“We have a connection more than you think.” The royal cape billowed behind the double, and he remained unfazed as chilling winds swept at him. “It isn’t jus’ that you have a part of me inside you. It’s th’ one reason you were brought here in th’ first place...”

Mickey held his tongue. His face illustrated his question. He didn’t want to ask. His double answered it anyway.

“You _created_ me...”

Mickey scurried away from the regal-dressed twin of his, patting his pockets feverishly. He started fiddling with the buttons on his shorts. He didn’t realize how the color on them was muted. “No... no, I-”

“You _created_ me.”

A hidden memory was unlocked. It was all too similar to the one where he caused the Thinner Disaster, but there was something else. Where he used the ink and tried to create a little replica of himself, but it wilted in a matter of seconds. He tugged at it, to try to fix it, but it manifested into something bigger, nastier, having _green_ eyes -

 _“No...”_ He was breathless.

“You created me.” It was more haunting than ever before.

“No, _no -”_ Why wasn’t there anything in his hammerspace!?

“You created me.”

 _“Stop!_ ” It was a plea. He wanted it to _stop._

“You created me.”

“Please stop!”

“You created _me...”_

_“Mickey!”_

He never thought he was so relieved to hear another voice...

* * *

_“AAAH!”_

The first act of instinct he did was to grab for his brush. He dug into his hammerspace, but there was nothing. He tried again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. He then patted the floor. His eyes searched for where the object could be found, bouncing around frantically. He must have looked like a loon in this state of mind, but all he could think about was the Blot, the brush, the rocket being destroyed, Oswald trying to -

 _“Oswald!”_ He looked around again, trying to find a pair of long ears in this castle. He had to be here, somewhere, somewhere, anywhere, anywhere, anywhere -

“Mickey!” Relief swelled within his chest as the gremlin appeared, holding the brush in his hands. Gus was haggard, not nearly as enough as Mickey, but dangerously close. “Thank goodness you’re alright! You had me worried when you -”

 _“Gus!”_ He took no time to waste as he grabbed hold for his brush, thankful that there wasn’t thinner on its tip, and he held it close to his cheek. He probably looked more like a loon right now. “Yer - yer okay...” His eyes began to fleet again. One person was missing. “Where’s Oswald?”

Gus sighed in relief. At least there was a part of his friend that was focusing on the task at hand. He hoped that nightmare didn’t rattle him too badly. “He’s... distracting the Blot. He said to guide you to the Control Tower when you came to. You... you were out for a while.” His face twisted in concern. “You look _petrified...”_

He _does?_ Mickey didn’t know that the nightmare shook him that bad, but then again... he can’t say he could blame himself for that. To have another revelation like that was something he isn’t so sure he can bear, but he knew that he has to endure it one way or another. After all, there was still the _Blot_ to take care of...

His _creation._

“I - I’m -” Was he tearing up? He didn’t notice. “I’m jus’ glad he’s okay... and you are and - and -” Oh, who was he kidding? He barreled into the smaller toon, just wanting some comfort for one last time before facing the Blot. It was all he could ask for now. “I was so scared...”

“It’s alright...” He can feel a hand rub against his back. “It’s almost over. The nightmare is almost over.”

He didn’t respond to that time. He only wanted to have one more embrace before the next struggle. It was all he wanted right now.

“Goodness, there is where you and I first met!”

That was Gus’ attempt to cheer him up. It worked.


	6. The Struggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So er - apologies if this chapter is on the shorter side this time and not much goes on story-wise. Sometimes my hand has got a mind of its own when it comes to writing lol. But I thought it would be nice for Mick to let his feelings out for once without being controlled like a puppet as yeah, holding all of that guilt ain't good for this boi (also sorry if he seems a little ooc in this chapter oof). Anywho, on with the chapter!
> 
> EDIT 4/27/2020: I wasn't satisfied with how it was written before so I revised it. Now it is longer. It is almost 3am right now so byyyee hope you enjoy!

A tremendous weight was sitting heavily - excruciatingly - in the depths of his chest, creating a twisted sense of company with the piece of the ink creature, the ink creation, swirling around inside of him. It kind of felt like the anvils he could materialize that would often help him get out of a place he’s been stuck in or needed to tear something apart. Before, the Blot inside of him was like a stranger. Now, it was like something familiar and that type of familiarity didn’t feel so welcoming.

The retelling of the old memory that seemed like it was ages ago only lifted his spirits for just a moment. At first, there was a small smile plastered on his face, his mind reeling to the fond memory of meeting this little gremlin, one who detailed just about anything and everything that goes on in Wasteland and helped him out of a tight pinch; the one who saved him from the Blot’s clutches. Yet, that sweet smile, as crooked and strained as it was, soon dissipated as the memory of how he first arrived here emerged from the depths of his mind, causing all of his limbs to freeze at an instant.

It all came in _so_ fast that it was almost dizzying. Images flickered before his very eyes, just like in that nightmare with those projection screens. One image was of a monstrous, melting hand curling around his tiny body, dragging him from the comfort of his household and into the mirror. Another was being bound to a table with a massive contraption looming over him with that realistic eye. Another was a plunger clinging onto his chest, tugging and tugging at it to pry that precious organ out of him -

To say that he was unsettled was an _understatement._ It was proven by the way his movements were jittery, and how his gloved hands fumbled with draining the thinner pool that surrounded the room. His eyes continued to bounce all over the place, flickering this way and that, as if expecting those slimy bloticles to come leaping out of the shadows and pounce on him. His paintbrush was so close to his chest it might as well be pinned to it. It was like he was guarding his chest too, like an armored knight sworn to protect their princess, despite the fact that his heart is not in there anymore.

He was not fond of having to display this emotion, of not casting something like an assuring smile or one that’s filled with confidence or a speech that could make anyone kiss at his feet or bring a smile to their face, but it was something he couldn’t, unfortunately, help. Something he can’t control. Like he can’t control himself... nor the Blot.

His shoulders were raised as the horrid image of losing control again entered his mind. The image of that melting form, wielding that thinner-coated brush, wearing a cheshire-like grin that is filled with malice, it all burned in his mind. A breath was caught in his throat, stuck in there as if it were to be imprisoned, and struggling to escape for any sanctuary.

The only thing that was preventing him from having his imagination eat at him was the presence of his comrade, though it didn’t help as much. His index finger, twitching at an uncontrollable rate, started picking at one of the buttons on his shorts. It won’t be long until that button becomes loose from all of that anxious fiddling.

“...You alright?”

_Does it look like he is?_

Silence was on the other side, as if Mickey didn’t hear the voice of the Blot at all and continued with his fiddling. He didn’t have the mental strength nor capacity to deal with it. He wasn’t so sure he could deal with another mental battering from this... this creation of his. And at the same time it made sense to him. It made sense as to why the Blot has tormented him for so long. It made sense as to why the Blot appeared to be so destructive. It made sense as to why Oswald was so bitter at him before and planned to snatch his heart without any care to consequence.

The pain of being forgotten was something he can never truly comprehend, but it wasn’t difficult to see it in the aggression in his brother’s snarl when he reached the lair. It wasn’t difficult to listen to it linger in the Blot’s voice; the voice that constantly bombarded his mindscape. It wasn’t difficult to see it in the way Clarabelle hung her head, watering her plants as it was the one thing these days that could instill joy in her. It was that pain that can be transferred to him, but constructing it in the form of something else. Something that can be just as unbearable.

The _guilt._

The guilt of leaving the mess he made. The guilt of causing such a catastrophic disaster that ruined the lives of toons. The guilt of messing something up so royally that it almost seemed impossible to make up for it. How - how can he defeat the Blot now that it’s stronger than ever before? How can he defeat it knowing that he created it? How can he defeat it after having the knowledge that the Blot has been left behind just like everyone else in Wasteland?

What can he do that sounded like the right thing? What can he do to save Wasteland without having another mistake piling on top of him? What can he do to make his brother happy again? What can he do?

What _can_ he do?

“...Gus...” A riddle of cracks came in the form of a mutter, and that crackling voice was like the static of an old radio that couldn’t decide how high the volume should be. At least there wasn’t some distortion or any indication of the Blot’s influence. The drippings of ink rising from his ears say otherwise. “...Remember when I said I caused th’ Thinner Disaster?”

The gremlin raised his head at the question, blinking a matter of times as if he hasn’t heard that right. He didn’t expect that to be something for the mouse to recall, as during that time the Blot had a stronger influence over him, especially when it came to tearing the cork off of the bottle. He still shivered at the image of the Blot spilling out of the bottle and catching Mickey in its gargantuan hands and dropping him like a ragdoll after stealing his heart. It was a miracle that Oswald managed to bring him to Ostown before anything else happened.

He couldn’t imagine what would have happened if... if Mickey were to absorb more of the Blot. How much control would the Blot have over him then?

“...Yes.” His eyebrows were raised in perplexity, but not for long as he noticed the way the other sulked. It was like a storm cloud, black as coal and puffed out in gnarled shapes, rumbling with thunder that could shake the entire castle and gushing out droplets of cold, harsh, guilt-ridden rain that could harden to hail at any second. It hurt to see Mickey like this. “You... you remember what happened when the Blot got a hold of you, didn’t you?”

A slow nod was what was received, and even that motion didn’t have enough effort put into it. _“...All of it.”_ A forlorn sigh. Mickey didn’t enjoy the way its audio entered his eardrums. “When I... I raced up to th’ summit, when I pulled th’ cork offa th’ bottle, back at Ostown after I got rid of th’ first bloticle... I remember _all_ of them.” The hand not holding onto the brush trembled. “I - I... I _hurt_ Oswald...”

Gus was prepared for another breakdown. If there was anything to rip the mouse apart, it was hurting the ones he cared for the most. “Mickey... it’s not your fault-”

A tisk came out like a click of the tongue. It came out in such an uncharacteristic manner that it wasn’t recognizable. The narrowing look that now illustrated the iconic toon didn’t match up with the innocent visage he usually displayed. It was... unnatural. A soft clink came from the bottom of his shoes that brushed against the concrete steps of the castle, creating clouds of dust in its wake, and each step was more brisk than the last.

Like the mouse was _desperate_ to get this finished.

“Not my fault?” he parroted, and the imitation was more mocking than repetition. It was almost cynical. Sardonic. His gloved fingers pierced inside of his quaking palm, and those fingers would have curled into a fist if it weren’t for him tossing his hand up in the air carelessly, like he’s cursing the sky above for all of this. “Not _my_ fault!?” The second time was much squeakier and yet it was louder than his steps. It provided an ugly sense of dissonance, especially coming from a small mouse. “How can you say that it’s not my fault when you know that I caused all of this in th’ first place? When you know that it was _me_ who caused th’ Thinner Disaster? That it was _me_ who created th’ Blot?”

Gus wasn’t sure what was more foreboding. The ink rising off of Mickey is now coming off in waves, with each blob becoming bigger rise in his tone, or that those movements of his were becoming more erratic and unfocused. If Mickey isn’t too careful, then something could happen. It could come at the cost of the mission. It could come at the cost of his control or something else entirely.

Gus didn’t want that to happen; he needed to set Mickey straight. He would have jumped straight at it if it weren’t for that last question echoing off in his mind, repeating like a broken record. His eyes would probably writhing from how much they widened. The aghast expression on his face didn’t make anything better, and it was not that he wanted to escalate the guilt or to make Mickey feel worse, but it was a tough pill to swallow. If Oswald were to tell him that, like it was some lie to make himself look better in comparison, he would have seen some reason to it but _Mickey?_

Mickey Mouse, _the_ Mickey Mouse, was the one who created the Blot? It didn’t sound right, but Mickey wasn’t one to spit out lies at the drop of a hat... wasn’t he?

“The - the -” Gus’ voice sputtered out like a sprinkler. He teleported to keep up with Mickey, as Mickey appeared to be taking off faster than he anticipated. It was like he was running from something. He looked so pale. “You _created_ the Blot? But -” He tried to find something that was assuring. There had to be something that wasn’t on purpose. “But it was all an accident, Mickey! The bottle was an _accident!”_

“Aw, sure it was an _accident!”_ A red pigment was now casting over the mouse’s face. His ears burned with the intensity of it all. He could have puffed steam out of his ears just like Oswald any minute now, but it was his voice that managed to stump Gus out of anything.

The response was garbled by its own speed, staggering over each syllable, and the last word had its pronunciation shifting from a high-pitched voice to a lower one. A lower one that was more animalistic. Something glimmered in the beady eyes of the mouse and Gus couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it looked oddly similar to the acidic liquid that was used to erase... paint. Like _thinner._

A lump formed in the gremlin’s throat. He struggled to find something to say, something to do, something to prevent another moment of possession, but all of the words swarming inside of his mind never came fluttering out of his mouth. He was at a complete standstill for once.

“I’m sure it was a _swell_ accident that I walked up in that workshop, played with a brush I had no idea what it was gonna do, thought it would be a great idea to make this replica of myself and guess what it does? It becomes somethin’ that wants to hurt me, hurt you, hurt _everyone_ _else_ in Wasteland and y’anno who’s responsible fer that? _Me!”_

The hand that was trembling like the rumbling of an earthquake slammed into the nearest pillar, but instead of feeling the roughness of brick scraping against the back of his glove, it was fragments of colored glass that spilled out, collapsing at his feet and miraculously not poking into his shoes. There was a small hole the size of a baseball that was caused by the punch. Thin cracks spread throughout the glass, disfiguring all of the colors and shapes that was carved into it. It cast a gnarled reflection of Mickey that was so disfigured that it made him feel sick to his stomach.

He wanted to look away but he just... _couldn’t._

The reflection was all too similar to how he was like in his nightmare. The ghostly-white pale face. The muted, milky coloring that was both on his shorts and shoes, becoming more of a gray color than their usual liveliness. The empowering, bright green that tinged his eyes. Mickey wanted to swivel on his heel and never look back. It had to be his imagination, that he could see a grin that was on his muzzle. A grin that resembled his nightmarish counterpart. A grin that resembled _the Blot._

_We have more of a connection than you think._

His eyes were glued to the stained glass. To that reflection. It was a solid reminder of what he could either turn into or what is to come. It could be some ugly premonition or a hallucination. He pinched his arm just to be sure, but that didn’t do anything. He turned away, feeling more disgusted with himself than anything else. He wasn’t aware of a blue splatter that was on his hand and how the liquid started sliding off from his knuckles.

He can’t believe that just happened. He can’t believe what he has seen right in front of him. He didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to believe it all, but the more he tried to deny it, the more he believed it. It was a cruel double-edged sword. He hated it.

He has to get to Oswald. And _fast._

He has to get to the Control Tower before anything else. He has to. He’s _got_ to.

He didn’t want to listen to more cookie-cutter nonsense from Gus. He may have appreciated the assurances before but... but he doesn’t want to believe that what he did was an accident. It can’t be an accident. It couldn’t have been an accident. It was a careless act. It was all careless, selfish, inconsiderate -

How can _anyone_ forgive him for what he did?

“Mickey...” Gus attempted to break the silence. Somehow. “I... I know this is... I know...” He stopped himself, trying to figure out what could be the best approach. It was hard to do with how fast Mickey was going. It might be even harder to get his attention. The desperation in those eyes was enough to turn somebody to stone. _“Mickey-”_

 _He doesn’t want to hear you,_ the Blot shouted in Mickey’s head.

Gus couldn’t take it anymore. He vanished and appeared right in front of the mouse, stopping him at his tracks. He could have sworn he seen Mickey raise his arm, pointing the brush at him, but he shoved himself into him without a second thought. He clutched onto his shoulders, smacking him against the wall as to prevent him from moving any further. It’s not working as well as he hoped, as Mickey was thrashing against the hold, being a pawn under the Blot’s influence or not.

He found those eyes staring back at him. Red, puffy eyes that have bags under them, that have stress on them, that have thinner drenching them. He almost buckled at the sight of them, but he didn’t dare look away for a second. His friend _needs_ him.

“...Listen to me. You may have created the Blot, and you may have it inside of you, and you may have caused the Thinner Disaster but - but that doesn’t define you, Mickey.” A raise of the head. Mickey’s teeth were now longer bared. The blush on his cheeks and all of that anger started to diminish. “It doesn’t mean you’re a monster, a bringer of destruction, it does not mean that you wanted to cause all of that suffering!”

A shook of the head. Mickey’s eyes were screwed shut. His head shifted to the right. He continued shaking his head, as if he doesn’t want to listen to more of this. He doesn’t want to believe in those words. He truly was a monster, a bringer of destruction, and even then, there wasn’t a time for this. The bigger threat was out there; not here. They _had_ to get to the Control Tower. 

What was Gus doing? Doesn’t he realize that all of these encouraging words are for _nothing?_

“You see what you have been doing? You have helped so many toons, Mickey. You didn’t have to, you could have chosen to take the rocket and leave, but you know what you’ve down instead? You have helped people, you even brought your brother out of isolation!”

Each word dug into him like a sword. Sharp but delicate and beautiful in its own special way. It hurt, it hurt in some cruel shape or form but, but it was something he wanted more of. He needed to hear more of it. He needed to hear something that was more relieving than just being told that he screwed up. He knew he screwed up, he knew he did, but -

It almost made him feel selfish to want something like this, but he couldn’t find the words to make Gus stop.

 _“Gus...”_ His voice cracked.

“You know who you are Mickey...”

All of the thinner that was swimming in Mickey’s pupils faded. Not a single hint of thinner was on that brush and his arm dropped to his side. The ink droppings weren’t so frantic anymore. The mouse was now lowering his head, unsure of what to say. He could have argued, bickered, got angry again, but it was all of those words that fissiled out the fire of that anger and of that overwhelming guilt. It all made him speechless, and he couldn’t be able to salvage any words to say or to respond.

All he can do was slid down the wall, cradling his injured hand close to his chest and dabbing it with paint to fix the wound. Just inhaling the chemicals of the paint was calming, soothing in the midst of all of this chaos, and it gave him time to reflect; to dwell on things. He rested his head on his friend’s shoulder, almost feeling ridiculous for losing himself back there.

He wasn’t so sure if all of that came from him or the Blot. Or both. He didn’t care which was which anymore.

“...Maybe...” He pulled his knees to his chest. “I might know who I am but - but I don’t think th’ _Blot_ does.”

Gus quirked a brow. “What do you mean?”

“I created th’ Blot, right? I created it to be some kinda replica of me before but it wilted right afterward. I tried to fix it, but all it did was make th’ Blot into what it is now; somethin’ that wants destruction. Maybe it is th’ only thing that it knows what ta do and I wonder...” Mickey’s face fell. “If we were to do that fireworks show, it would jus’... _vanish,_ right?”

Gus wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He can already get the picture on what Mickey was thinking. “I believe so, yes.”

Mickey hummed solemnly, but it was not out of guilt this time. It was more of compassion, and it may have felt odd to him at one point, but now he can see why he would. He created that creature and left it behind, making it believe that he left it to rot.

He wasn’t so sure what he could do to fix that but... he has to save Wasteland. That... that was more important.

Whatever it takes.


	7. The Same Coin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo... this chapter came a lot sooner than I was expecting. I was expecting it to take a few more weeks, but I guess inspiration slapped me in the face. I guess you can say this chapter is the climax, as we are nearing the end of the usual canon story. Also, sorry if it ever seemed off in the previous chapters and whatnot, writing semi-canon material is not my greatest strength oof.
> 
> Anywho, on with chapter seven!

_You’re getting worse._

It was a sentence that emerged from the deepest trenches of his mind, puncturing not only his concentration but the mental blockage he instilled for himself when it came to that earlier breakdown. It wasn’t an accusation but a statement. A statement that could mean a lot of things and it was that statement that made him realize just how much of an impact his creation truly has over him.

That first nightmare wasn’t just a nightmare. It was a premonition. A premonition into how having the Blot inside of him can change him. The ink drippings, the muted colors, the unsettling paleness that now illustrated on his face. It all mingled together into something he thought was just of his fright and paranoia, and he isn’t sure how much more he can handle that. He isn’t sure if he truly wanted to destroy something that he could help, but... but saving the lives of a million toons is worth _more_ than just a creature.

...Right?

_...I know._

It was a soft reply back. He didn’t bother to muster the kind of defiance he usually has against his creation. He knew that all of that mental battering from earlier was just from retaliating, to be angry at its creator for abandoning it. It didn’t make it right but -

It opened the mouse’s insight into this whole situation. It made him realize that maybe... maybe the Blot _isn’t_ a heartless being. Maybe it just wants to be remembered like Oswald, maybe it just wants to be loved like Mickey. Maybe it wants both of those things instead of one or the other. If Mickey were to have his heart still, it would have its heartstrings violently tugged at those concerning thoughts.

It felt strange, revolting, and yet sentimental at the same time, but there was no time to dwell on things on the matter now. He has a job to do.

Only one goal was set in mind: _The Control Tower._

* * *

It had to take a single fingertip tapping against his shoulder to avert his attention from the scenery in front of him, but the more his shoes clapped against the dust-coated, carpet-concealed floor, the more he found himself enthralled and somewhat intimidated by what is in front of him.

A royal, almost darkened to the point where one could mistake it for the color of black, tinge of purple was cascaded among each of the towering pillars that are so tall that it made the petite mouse feel kind of ashamed for his height. All of those pillars were curved and tilted in a fashion that made it difficult for the bricks to stay together, as some of them have been collapsing and piling onto the floor the second the Blot arrived here. Sooner or later, with enough bloticles in the surrounding area, this room would eventually become nothing more but _rubble._

A beam of blinding light entered the dimly lit room, seeping throughout the colored, stained glass that is right above the throne. Amidst the ray of light that is as white as snow, collecting specs of dust that are sitting in the room as if it has been there for ages, shone upon the mouse, making his current, abnormal features more apparent by the minute, if he were to squint, he can see something within that paper-thin glass. A picture that resembles his _brother._

It was a picture of what it could have been like before the disaster. Loads of happy, bouncing blue bunny children surrounded their parents, to whom their father wrapped an arm around his cheerful feline wife, and the two of them were standing in front of the path to Dark Beauty Castle. The pointy tops that crowned the castle weren’t tilting and stood proudly, and all of the colors were filled with lively colors instead of the forlorn ones that are now in the present.

A sudden, uncontrollable urge surged inside of Mickey. One where he would have wished he could enter a time machine and see what Wasteland was like before the disaster. One where he could have met his sister-in-law... wherever she is or whatever happened to her. Despite that gnawing guilt that clawed at him like vicious, hungry beasts, a small, sad smile curled on his lips at the sight of the picture before him.

It was a longing stare like he could be watching that picture for centuries as if it was the one thing that brought such sentimental value to him. It was like all he could do was give it a glimpse and that would be enough to satisfy him.

“I promise you...” A gloved palm clasped over the center of his chest, and his fingers squeezed the flesh among that area. His words were spoken in a hushed whisper like it would be a crime to say it out loud. “...That you will find happiness again.”

His eyelashes fluttered at that last statement, and he almost screwed his eyes shut as to silently, mentally wish that things would be alright in the end, to give him peace of mind, if it weren’t for his shoulder being prodded once again - by Gus. A light chuckle emitted from his throat. He rubbed the back of his head in sheepishness.

“Sa... sorry ‘bout that, pal. It’s jus’...” A sigh. “He looked happier back then.”

He didn’t want to stare at the throne specifically though. It was where that disfigured form of himself was sitting in his nightmare, and it made him feel sick to even think of sitting in it as well. This was not his throne, this was not his castle.

_It could be. It could have been mine._

A shook of his head.

_No... no, you don’t deserve it. And neither do I._

Gus patted his shoulder, encouraging him to finally take a step forward in the room. “He’ll look even happier once this is all finished.” He shared the same sad smile. “C’mon, we got to bring more light to this area...”

Instructions are soon going to be followed but for one measly minute, Mickey found one half of a painting in the room. It was of the rabbit sitting on a bench, but it looked like something was missing. No... _someone_ was missing. Hmm... Mickey would have to fix that.

A splash of paint hit against the painting, and it was revealed to have not only Oswald on the bench but Ortensia as well. Both of them were sitting together with smiles carved on their faces. Each of their stares contained a long-lasting love, and it made the hopeless romantic side of Mickey sigh in contentment.

He might have stared at this painting for a little bit, but just staring at it brought him hope. That he could help bring Wasteland to its former glory.

“...You’ll see her again soon, brother. I swear it.”

He retracted his hand back from the painting and continued his way up to the balcony. He had no idea that his once gentle, stubby fingers are now elongated, jagged talons. A few nails were dipped in green, tearing the cotton of his gloves. It was a sign of more of what is to come. Or, at the very least...

More of what Mickey _feared._

* * *

The summit of the Control Tower somehow looked untouched despite the rest of the castle being seemingly crumbled to smithereens by the bloticles that swarmed it from both the inside and out. Most of it looked like it could blend in well with the coal-colored, puffy clouds that soar across the sky, all belonging to the monstrosity that towered the rest of the world. The one thing that was out of place was a rabbit standing in front of a statue - or, at least, that’s what it appeared to be from this far away.

Oswald reached a bare hand forward to the outstretched hand of the inert figure, intertwining those immobilized fingers with his own. His lips pressed against the cold material, giving it a soft peck. It didn’t matter to him if it would be kind of weird, to do this when his beloved is already inert, but it was all he could ever have left of her right now. Unless, somehow, those fireworks could be enough to take care of the Blot.

_Hopefully..._

“It’ll all end soon, honeybunch...”

A panting breath interrupted the small scene, as a kneeling mouse slammed his knees against the concrete, clutching at his chest as if his life depended on it. Drippings of ink started to rise from his ears once again, along with his arms, and some of them have a powdery white color within them like it’s starting to sap the paint from Mickey’s form.

And judging by the muted colors and the... the clawed hand, Oswald can conclude that it’s already happening. He wasted no time in hastily rushing over to his comrades, taking a hold of that clawed hand to get a better examination of it. The lime-green claws that protruded from the fingertips could have been all too similar to a wolverine, or it could look like it could come from one of the lackeys from the Blot.

That last thought hit him. It hit him like a dagger digging into his chest or if ice had started crystallizing his entire body. A gasp that took in so much air that it could drain a person’s lung was forced out of him, and he squeezed the hold on his brother’s hand, trying to not get poked by the claws.

“Fire... fireworks are ready...” A wheeze was stressed out of Mickey. His eyelids were sagging over his dull eyes, and he didn’t look like he had the strength to push on any further. His arm that had the brush was pointed towards him, and paint spilled over him, hoping that it could be enough to regain his strength.

“H-hey... hey...” Oswald patted his cheeks fervently. “Stay with me, Mick...” He didn’t waste any time to start questioning. “What... what _happened_ to you?”

Gus’ expression was grim. “We went around the castle to activate the crystals that could stall the Blot, but The Blot was smarter than we anticipated. Like before, it used its puppetry to stop Mickey from moving any further, and when it had him, it...”

“...It...?” Oswald bit his lip.

“...It made him shatter the last crystal and slammed him through several floors of the castle. Miraculously, Mickey managed to get through it, but...”

Mickey tore his hand from Oswald’s, now showing the unnatural visage of his palm. It was scrawny, scrawny to the point where if toons had bones or veins, they would be seen. It was the claws that were the startling contrast out of anything, as the only remnant he had of his glove was the cuff. He couldn’t hide it as much as he desperately wanted to. It was out in the open now and nothing can hide it.

“...It came at a cost. Th’... th’ Blot is gettin’ stronger, Oswald. And... and soon, I won’t have a piece left of me to save myself.” His frown was just as grim as Gus’. “It’s only a matter of time...”

Oswald’s brows were knitted together in denial. He didn’t want to believe it. There was no way that it could happen. No way. Nada. Nope. It’s not going to happen and not on his watch. The fingers that were once holding onto Mickey’s hand became curled up in a trembling fist, and his nostrils were flared.

“It’s _not_ only gonna be a matter of time. We’re here at the Control Tower, the fireworks are ready... you said so _yourself!”_ There had to be hope left in the little guy. There had to be. “All we have to do is press the button on that remote, and the Blot is taken care of!” He tugged under the toon’s armpits to drag him closer to him, enough that their noses touched. “You will be free, Mickey! Free from its control!”

Mickey’s pupils dilated at that.

Oswald craned his neck to face the gremlin. “Gus, I want you to press it right now! Let’s show him what it means that he won’t be just like the Blot!”

Gus would have gladly complied if it weren’t for nothing happening right after he pressed it. He pressed the button again, and the same result occurred. Beaming, determined smiles soon vanished, and Gus heaved out a frustrated sigh. “Batteries are dead. I’ll go ahead and replace them in a jiffy.”

He teleported to do just that, now leaving the brothers to do nothing but to stare at one another, or to start staring at that figure that was perched. Its familiar features struck Mickey, as he remembered the same cat that was shown in those pictures. His chest ached.

“Is that... _Ortensia?”_

Oswald’s chest throbbed. “It’s not a statue. That is... what’s left of Ortensia after we bottled up the Blot.” He reached a hand again to touch his inert wife. His eyes have become misty. Mickey buried his face into his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry... I messed up. I messed... I messed _everythin’_ up.”

Oswald’s hold on him tightened. “You didn’t mean to.” He would say it again. “You didn’t mean to, Mickey. I... I know that now.” His guilt resurfaced. The idea of stealing his brother’s heart, escaping in that rocket, it all made him feel disgusted with himself that he even dared to think of it. “Listen... Mick... I did mean to - the rocket...” His jaw clenched. “Nevermind. I made my own share of messes...”

He pulled away from him for just a smidgen. He held out his palm for the other toon to hold. It wasn’t every day that he would offer a handshake to someone, especially to someone he once resented. A genuine smile was on his face, not one that was cunning or filled with mischief or had any selfish intentions behind it. It was as real as it could be.

“Seems we _both_ need forgiveness, Mickey.”

Mickey almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing or hearing. For the second he has met his long lost relative, all he ever wanted was to put a smile on his face. All he ever wanted was to make him happy, to fix his mistakes so that he could have the same amount of love and care that he always had and be cherished and respected and loved -

It made him realize that... that he didn’t just have to give someone that love. Sometimes, he needed it himself. Sometimes, he needed to be taught that he didn’t ruin everything, that he wasn’t some monster that wanted to tarnish Wasteland, that he didn’t mean to cause so much suffering. It made him feel childish to have his eyes watering for the umpteenth time, but this time it was _special._

This time he can _finally_ rekindle with a member of his family.

He raised his hand, his disfigured, ruined hand, and before he can hold Oswald’s hand before he can pull him into an embrace before he can embarrass his brother by chanting on how much he loves him and loves him so much he would want to introduce all of his friends to him -

Everything was thrown into chaos.

A tentacle curled among Oswald’s wrist. It yanked on him, hoisting him up into the air. The rest of his limbs wiggled in protest, struggling and thrashing against the slimy, inky bloticle, but before he can have a chance to scream for help, he was pulled right into the very thing he feared: The Blot.

_“NO!”_

The shrill voice of the mouse could have shattered the atmosphere by its volume alone. His shoes skidded among the floor as he attempted to make a reach for his sister-in-law, but he missed her by only a centimeter before she was pulled in too. He swerved his head towards the gremlin, sweat streaming down the sides of his head, and he reached for him too, lunging to grab him, to save him too, but...

All of his attempts were nothing more than just _that._

Mickey dropped to his knees. His hand enclosed on the brush. The urge to use thinner was stronger than ever before, but he didn’t dare do it. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it, no matter how oddly satisfying it was to use it. He wouldn’t stoop to that level. He wouldn’t -

_I warned you._

It was that sentence that struck a chord within him. His fists tightened. The shadows of the tower obscured his face, hiding the glint of green that twinkled in his eyes. It was the last hint of color before the rest of his form was in black, white, and gray. His clawed hand dragged against the flooring, creating jagged marks in its wake. His gritted teeth were shown, and an almost unintelligible growl slipped in between the cracks.

But it wasn’t giving in to the Blot. It wasn’t becoming a blotling nor minion of the Blot. It wasn’t finally giving in to that monstrous side of him. It was fighting fire with fire. It was fighting with a rage that he hasn’t felt in decades, and it was proven by the way he started marching towards his creation.

The Blot widened its eyes as its creator came closer and closer to its towering form.

_What are you doing?_

Mickey smeared a tear off of his cheek. He was only a millimeter away from the Blot. His expression was unreadable.

_I’m finishing this._

Then he leaped inside of the Blot too.

To find Oswald, to find Gus, to find Ortensia...

To find his _heart._


	8. The Comeback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Woah nelly, this chapter was emotionally draining from start to finish, but in a good way. Originally, I thought this chapter was going to be the one that finished the rest of the story arc and the next chapter was going to be the epilogue. It turns out that nope, this chapter shows the falling action of the climax, but it is not the end of our story arc yet. It's not the most descriptive chapter of this story but it will suffice (and I'm satisfied with how it turned out woo). And also, this chapter includes more Mickey angst and sprinkles of Oswald angst in there. The poor boys ;;
> 
> Anywho, on with the chapter (probably my longest one yet)!

_Narrowed._ Never had the mouse’s mind become narrowed in such a manner that the track itself is transparent. It was narrowed to the point that it was the one thing that was battering the insides of his cranium, containing the force of a jackhammer that has drilled a hole into his skull. No longer would he be devoured by his own thoughts; by the Blot’s words. Anything that the distorted voice of the Blot could say would be almost nonexistent. It didn’t matter if it continued to ring in those big, circular ears of his, screaming like a creature that came from the deepest depths of the underworld.

One thing mattered. One thing _mattered._ It was only one particular thing that mattered:

 _To win._ To succeed. To stand up despite your knees buckling down before you. To never let your will die out. To find the comrades who have been dragged into his creation. To find that pumping organ; the one organ that can fill in the gaping hole in his chest. It was desiring that warm, enriching, endearing feeling again that ignited his determination. It lit up like a match and it sparked the flames of motivation and stubbornness. It would taint his mind with every single puff of smoke it’s gotten.

It. Will. Make him _succeed._

A squelching sound ricocheted in his ears the second the soles of his feet hit against the ground. Only, this was no ordinary ground. It didn’t feel like the smooth cement of Mean Street or the rickety, screeching floorboards of Bog Easy. Instead, it felt like stepping into fresh mud, mud that has been formed from endless precipitation. It didn’t cling onto the ridges of the paintbrush-wielder’s shoes, thankfully, but it didn’t alleviate any of his unease as he leaped inside of the Blot.

He was surrounded by pillars of ink that fanned out in front of him. Each of them was not like the pillars of old bricks that are holding Dark Beauty Castle together, even in its progression of collapsing any second now, but instead of old brick, it was gaping holes of thinner that was pasted along with these hallowed walls, streaming out thin rivers of that acidic liquid that made the mouse squirm at the sight of it. Pockets of thinner came in all shapes and sizes, and if one weren’t to be too careful, they would end up being submerged by the pools or trapped inside of the walls. Mickey refused to be one of them.

He refused to let anybody be one of those victims. Not Gus, not Oswald, not Ortensia, not _anyone._ If perhaps he would be the victim, he would not go down without a fight, but at the same time, he would sacrifice himself if it meant saving the ones who are important to him. It only fueled the anger that is storming inside of him.

All of that compassion, all of that pity, all of that sympathy has now been eradicated. Rage seeped into his nonexistent veins, and whether it was out of pure rage or his concern to his peers was indistinguishable. It was unrecognizable. It was unfathomable. It was... it was...

_...Addicting._

Teeth were gritted together. A vicious tremble spread throughout his small frame. All thoughts dissipated. A dark cloud enveloped the entirety of his mind. His eyes contained the color of malachite; now drenching and contaminating all of the sweetness out of him, leaving him to be a sour individual who can only pinpoint to the act of revenge.

He said he wouldn’t give in. He promised he wouldn’t give in. He promised himself he wouldn’t give in. Gus promised him he wouldn’t give in. Oswald believed he wouldn’t give in. And yet... all of those promises amounted to nothing. Nothing truly mattered anymore when the rest of his pals are consumed by the Blot. No more pity or concern or care for his creation can solve that. It can’t solve it _at all._

“Where... where are they?” The question left his lips slowly. His half-lidded gaze was pinned to the walls. His fingertips clawed into the wooden stick of the brush. Splinters are now poking out from the said brush. Stains of ink, obsidian black and milky white, splattered across the brush. It didn’t occur to Mickey that those stains might have come from him. Nothing else occurred to him. He hissed through his teeth. “I said... where _are_ they!?”

It was not his brush that initiated an attack. It was not a stream of thinner that spilled onto the sentient walls. No. It all came from his other arm; his other hand. The one that held those talons, those luminescent green claws. It all came in a matter of a swipe, a brandish, and the next thing that the mouse knew, that same thinner was stuffed inside of his nails.

A trio of jagged marks was what was laid in front of him. It was carved roughly into the ink, like the action itself appeared to be something unnatural and abnormal. Ink was threatening to take a hold of the thinner-bleeding marks, but with each attempt to stitch the hole, it became fruitless. A guttural, syrupy, deafening roar pierced Mickey’s mind, causing him to stumble and plop to his knees. A searing ache pulsed in the right half of his back, right where the shoulder blade is supposed to be. It was hammered in a way that synced up with his missing heart. He can still feel its presence... _somewhere._

Blobs of ink floated off from his body once more, but each dripping was like a needle pricking into his flesh. It started at the tip of his ears and then transferred to his arms. It was so unbearable that it was difficult to remove his legs from the ground. It strengthened his anger.

How dare this thing drag him from his home? How dare this thing have him absorb a piece of it? How dare it torments his brother _and_ the forgotten townsfolk of Wasteland? How dare it attempts to take over his mind and possess him like a puppet on strings? How dare it make him feel this pain that he is _giving_ to it?

How. Dare. It.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. It staggered, leaving the tiny cracks that are in between those pearly whites. It was more like a heave than an actual breath. If he had lungs, they would be depleted by now, all because of this pain, this awful, horrid, addicting pain...

He is not finished.

He peeled himself from the ground. His kneecaps bonked against one another. “Oh?” A cold, unamused noise emitted from him. His brow was furrowed, but it was cruel. Sardonic. So unlike him. “You don’t like that, don’t ya? Well, sorry...” His scrawny hand was curled, revealing the claws that are dripping with thinner. Thinned lines crawled out from the corners of his eyes, revealing all the stress that has been piling on top of him ever since this whole debacle. “...I don’t take kindly to those who are tryin’ to ruin me...”

Again that the claws scrapped against his creation’s flesh. Thinner gnawed at the insides, causing those pools of the same substance to start overflowing. It lapped against the safe zones, crashing and receding like waves of the sea. At times it almost brushed the punt of Mickey’s shoes, but he wouldn’t have noticed. He wouldn’t have acknowledged it. Not when his mind is clouded with so much _anger._

He almost thanked the Blot for giving him so much power.

“Now, I’ll ask again... where. Are. _THEY!?”_

Was it possible to be ignorant of the distortion of your _own_ voice?

* * *

A hitched breath desperately broke through the flared nostrils of the King of Wasteland. It might have not been visible, but it might as well have been. A chill passed down his nonexistent spinal cord, spreading throughout the rest of his body. It crawled in his skin, like a parasite that would suck all of the life force out of him. It coated his ears, his fingertips, his toes, and even his bushy tail. He has been inclined, so inclined to remove a limb so it wouldn’t be infected with the rest of this leeching ink, but for everything he tried, he cannot... he cannot _move._

 _Move... move!_ A nagging thought screamed at him. _Move! Your brother needs you!_ His head shifted from side to side, but not once did it detach itself from his neck. It was like it was permanently glued to his body, just like everything else. It didn’t help that this cold feeling is frosting over him, and soon... soon there wouldn’t be anything left of him to salvage.

It was harsh. By Walt, it was _harsh._ It was like gale-force winds have started to penetrate his body. Flakes of snow could have been carried in those wind currents. It was cold. It was damp. It soaked his chest, and it kind of made him feel relieved he didn’t have a heart to be stolen from at that moment. He braced himself as much as he possibly could, but it proved to be worthless.

His head lowered, resting where his collarbone should be. His floppy ears were pinned to the back of his head, still wrapped up under all of that ink. Waterworks were threatening to invade his eyes, blurring his corneas. It made him feel pathetic. He _can’t_ cry. Crying was not tough. It was not strong. It was not something he should do right now. It was something he can’t do right now.

No matter how much he wanted to lurch out in such an excruciating way that it would press painfully against the constraints made by the Blot.

He didn’t want this to end this way. He didn’t want everything to end this way. He thought his plan of taking Mickey’s heart for himself would bring him happiness, but what did it bring forth instead? Pain. Suffering. He was suffering, his friends were suffering, _Mickey_ was suffering -

How could he have been such a careless fool? How could he have been so cruel? How could he dare to think that everything will be okay once he has that heart? How could he allow his brother to be dragged into the darkness?

It was all his fault. _His_ fault. All. His Fault. Fault. Fault, fault, _fault._ His fault his wife is inert. His fault toons were erased by the thinner. His fault Wasteland became ruined. His fault his brother at points was controlled by the Blot.

The barrage of words was more grating than the cold can ever be.

 _YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT - IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT - IT WAS BECAUSE OF YOU - FAULT, FAULT, FAULT - YOUR RESENTED YOUR BROTHER AND LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID! YOU’RE A MONSTER._ _MONSTER MONSTER MONSTER MONSTER -_

His tears stung. They pelted his face like steam gushing out from a geyser. He was unaware of that voice not being his own. It was not his inner demon clawing him out. It did not come from him, but it didn’t matter to him. _Nothing_ mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. He could have been numb. It was just that icy pain was the only sensation in his body.

He withdrew a breath. His screams echoed at the mercy of the Blot.

* * *

It was that one scream that reverberated the walls. It scratched so much more ferociously than Mickey’s thinner claws. It made the ground shake in such a violent manner that it managed to get through to the mouse - to place a delicate fissure in his blind rage. It would have stolen all the air that could enter and escape his mouth. His jaw was slacked. His eyes have gone blank. He nearly dropped the magical brush in a pool of thinner.

His entire body went _cold._

_“OSWALD!”_

It was a miracle on how a brother’s love can make Mickey from vicious to worried in a millisecond.

His footwear stomped on the marshy land of the beast, his skinny thighs jutting out with every single step he committed. His eyes, now losing that sharp glimmer of thinner, fleeted at the bloticles that have swarmed all over the place. Boils were decorated on each bloticle and it made his stomach sink. Paint would not solve this problem. Only thinner will.

Only... thinner will.

Only. Thinner will.

_Thinner thinner thinner thinner -_

His arms wormed across his abdomen. All ten fingers curled and clung to his sides. One half gloved; one half filled with claws. The clawed ones dug into that one side. Paint bled down that side. He was not aware that the wound he created ate at his claws. The only thing that mattered to him was finding Oswald. His brother. His elder sibling.

His lost sibling.

_...Do you think you could save him in time?_

Ignore. Ignore ignore ignore. Just ignore it. Ignore the voice throbbing in his head. Just ignore. Have his focus elsewhere. Shift it into something far more important. More pressing matters. More pressing matters, more pressing matters - More. Pressing. Matt -

Was the distorted voice _supposed_ to be pained?

_It’s pained because of you..._

His fingers clasped tighter on the magical brush. His dastardly, grotesque hand threatened to clip into his palm. The claws resembled nails more than actual claws at that point. He didn’t know that paint was dribbling down his side. His mind reeled back, rewind to where before he lost himself to his rage, replayed that one sentence.

_“I created th’ Blot, right? I created it to be some kinda replica of me before but it wilted right afterward. I tried to fix it, but all it did was make th’ Blot into what it is now; somethin’ that wants destruction. Maybe it is th’ only thing that it knows what ta do and I wonder... if we were to do that fireworks show, it would jus’... vanish, right?”_

His lips pursed sentimentally. His eyes clamped shut. His figure was hunched over, nearly stalling him from his objective. A breath pushed from his nose. In and out. In and out. In... out. Just don’t let the negatives outweigh the positives. Just... _focus._

Focus on saving his brother.

_I’m sorry..._

He continued before his mind could tumble much more. He just hoped that his creation could hear the tint of sadness and regret in his voice. Sorry wouldn’t cut it, sorry wouldn’t be enough, but... maybe... maybe the Blot can have some heart to it. If it has his heart, then... then...

It’s possible... _right?_

_“Mickey!”_

An accented voice shattered the small conversation between creator and creation. It was croaked with relief or crackling with relief. Either way, it might have sounded like the static from an ancient radio, but it reached Mickey enough to have him spin on the heels of his feet. A tiny smile etched his cheeks. A wistful feeling, a warm feeling, a feeling that marginally vanished all of the fear. Marginally, but it still helped.

He would have barreled into the gremlin again if there wasn’t an important task at hand.

_“Gus!”_

It was like a beacon of light was in the middle of the darkness. Gus might have looked much more haggard than he did after the rocket crash, including where some spots of his clothing were muted. His mustache had some knots in it, and the ends of it were ripped. Yet, despite it all, the hovering toon appeared relieved than anything else.

“Mickey!” A delighted squeal came from the mouse as his shoulders were grasped. “Oh, thank heavens you’re alright!” Gus’ brows scrunched at the sight of that small wound on Mickey’s side, but he figured it wasn’t too much of an issue. “Oswald and I got separated after the Blot grabbed us! I think we’re...” His pupils bounced all around, focusing on the surroundings. _“...Inside_ the Blot!”

It was then that his smile faded, and he almost didn’t want to announce the bad news, but time is of the essence. “I... don’t have the remote with me, unfortunately. It was dropped when the Blot grabbed a hold of me and dragged me into it. It... it might have been gone forever.” He sighed gravelly. “I’m sorry...”

Anger was bubbling again. It was again directed at the Blot. Mickey tried to suppress it. “It’s... it’s okay...” After all, he has done far worse things than drop a remote. He shuffled one of his feet. “You... you know where Oswald is? I... I heard him scream.”

It shouldn’t mean anything bad, right? Anything _crucially_ bad? It can’t be bad, can’t it? It can’t, it can’t, it _can’t,_ or otherwise, it would be all his fault -

Gus decided that Mickey’s self-loathing could wait. “I think I heard him somewhere... it can’t be that far from here.” He patted his friend’s shoulders encouragingly. “Follow me!”

A red luminescence traced down the sentient walls, to which some show gaping holes that could be threatening to swallow the two comrades whole. Several hands drenched in ink attempted to grab out from the holes, appearing like desperate beings who would want that beam of warm, gentle light for themselves. If either of the toons were to squint, they could see that these creatures were not minions of the Blot. Gus frowned. Mickey paled.

He reached out for his brush, thankful that he could use paint for once, and released a pint of it at the disfigured toons. Nothing happened the first time. Nothing happened the second time. Each try was like a dagger to the mouse’s chest. He wanted to look away, and he... he couldn’t. He just _couldn’t._

He felt _sick._

He inched away, turning on his heel once again, and followed the familiar light without the guidance of his friend. He knew he would have been brought into a comforting embrace by him, and be told of how those disfigured beings were once people who lived in Wasteland, living happy lives, but then got consumed by the Blot. It was something he can’t fix, not with a magical paintbrush. It was something he can’t forgive the Blot for, no matter how he can sympathize with it. But, really...

Wasn’t this still _his_ fault to begin with?

Follow the light, follow the light, follow the light, and find Oswald. The same light twinkled brightly amid the darkness, hitting against Mickey and Gus as they reached a stop to it. That light belonged to the one thing that Mickey has been begging to get back since it was stolen: His heart.

Bloticles curled among it, and it pumped regardless of being squeezed. It was still colorful, still bright, and still comforting. It was, ironically, much bigger than its original owner, but it could be that massive for many reasons. Reasons that Mickey would have questioned if he didn’t turn his head to the right, eyes widening to dinner plates. His eyes could have stung vigorously from widening that much. He didn’t care though.

_“Oswald!”_

Lunging over a precarious ledge, he skidded down to where the distraught rabbit was in place. His chest wrenched as he heard sobs wrack the poor imprisoned king, and those were probably tears that weren’t shed in decades. He had no idea what could have knocked his brother down to such a peg that it reduced him to being a sobbing mess. He was not sure what he could do to make it stop, but he had to try.

A gloved palm touched his drenched cheek, wiping away the tears that were threatening to spill. A gentle smile was plastered on Mickey’s face, one that showed so much care and loves no matter how many times he has been resented and hated. He could see the apologetic shine in Oswald’s eyes, and it was backed up with a quivering lip. He still smiled sweetly. 

Oswald didn’t understand... why was he being nice to him? After all he has _done?_ He didn’t deserve to suffer. He shouldn’t have suffered. He shouldn’t have been hated and resented and treated like dirt - “Mick... I’m... I’m sor-”

 _“Shhh...”_ A hushed whisper was followed. It was like accepting the apology, although Oswald believed he didn’t deserve it. Mickey, on the other hand, did. “I’m goin’ to get you out of here, one way or another.”A small jingle escaped from him, one that was reminiscent of the song he was sung to after his first nightmare. One that was familiar, one that was filled with the kind of love that the lucky rabbit missed so dearly, craved so desperately. When he sang it, it was a kind way to bring some comfort into his brother, but now...?

That comfort is directed back at him. His head raised at the genuine, sweet, sweet smile on his brother’s face. A face that might be not as innocent as one perceives him as, as perfect as one perceives him as, but that was the beauty of it all. That someone so special could have flaws, just like Oswald. Tears rolled down Oswald’s cheeks again, but was it of happiness? Relief? He’s not so sure.

He saw that assuring smile before he saw him turn away and head elsewhere, but not without a determined glint in his eyes.

He _believed_ in his brother.

“I’ll come back fer you.”

His brother headed elsewhere, to take care of the bloticles ensnaring his heart, but just seeing the confident stride in that run was what filled him with _confidence._


	9. The Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the last chapter didn't sucker-punch me in the gut, then this one surely did. I know some were expecting some grand, epic finale battle, but there is only so much you can do to make a battle inside of the Blot to make it impactful. Thus, I went with this route instead. This one is much shorter than the last one, but it's because this chapter was a part of the last chapter, to which I felt could have made the chapter much longer and more overwhelming. Anywho, this chapter is the end of the story arc, and the next chapter shows the epilogue (which includes the ending of the game owo). I have to say this chapter is also one of my favorites, second one to the one titled The Crash.
> 
> Anywho, enjoy!~
> 
> Edit 5/15/2020: I fixed some errors/mistakes (which I hoped I have gotten them all) and I added some stuff in this chapter to not only have it more impactful but longer too. Yes this is still my favorite chapter lol.

_There will be nothing to return to._

It was that mangled, distorted, otherworldly voice that boomed in Mickey's head, possibly splitting it into a multitude of fractions, bouncing off of every single corner in it before it decided to breach into the surroundings. It vibrated the gnarled, grotesque, slimy walls, rumbling so much that the toon started staggering on his own two feet, relying on his ankles for support. It, for once, made him realize that perhaps it wasn’t _just_ him who is listening to his creation.

That the voice broke out _more_ than from a telepathic link.

He carried on regardless. Magical brush equipped in his perfectly normal, non-claw-infested gloved hand. Ink continued to float upward from his arm despite it all, looking a lot like the little hairs that would arise from a human’s arm whenever they are frightened or attempting to brace the cold. The sight of it caused him to visibly cringe, his mouth grimacing and his nose crinkling. He pointed the tip of the brush toward the boils, drenching them with streams of that acidic thinner.

In a slight domino effect, the boils popped one by one, and the chemicals of thinner swirled in the confines of the Blot. Wisps of green started to twirl around the mouse’s form, and at the corner of his eye, he blinked at the whispering, hushed, unintelligible voices that are orbiting him. Something about them brought familiarity to him, but _what?_

_“When you use a lot of thinner, these guardians will follow you. These are what we call ‘Turps.”_

Another blink occurred. The realization hit like a log cabin has toppled all over him, leaving him to be buried with clouds of suffocating dust and old logs that Pete wouldn’t have bothered to lift off of him. It plucked on the cord attaching to a light bulb, causing it to shine its brilliance. Mickey’s clever mind was tinkering again, and gosh did he want to be whacked with Minnie’s purse for not thinking of this sooner.

 _...Guardians._ Guardians are what has helped him through this mess. Whenever he was cornered, whenever a fight went too intense, whenever help was needed. These little guys were helpful in every stretch of the word, and he hasn’t used the thinner ones since this whole shebang started.

Why not put them to good use?

_Well, you sure like being pessimistic about this, don’t ya? Sorry Blot, I don’t think my hope has run out yet._

A smirk - one that would remind Mickey about the days where his mischievousness was in its prime - graced his muzzle, and he turned his head around from this way and that to face the Turps curling around him. “You guys know what ta do...”

He gathered them all up, one by one from each time he has used thinner, whether it was forced or accidental. All of those Turps that haven’t been used are now whirling around him like the bands of a hurricane, and their swirling seemed very reminiscent of the time he grabbed a hold of the sorcerer’s hat. Only, this time, he will _not_ mess up.

“Annnd...” A finger pointed at warts that are remaining on the bloticles. Mickey’s smirk widened into a grin. _“Charge!”_

It was like he has unleashed an army. All of the guardians that have been neglected during this whole time are finally doing what they were instructed to do: To guard. To protect. To use their powers in a way that is helping the person they are protecting. And in each growing second, the sound of popping has echoed among the walls, creating much more roars from the Blot and although it was causing Mickey’s limbs to throb at an indescribable pain, it at least told him that he is turning the tides.

_...What!? You think that will stop me?_

A retching noise sliced the air. Mickey turned his head to it, and although his chest was twisted and wrenched at the sight of his thrashing brother still encaged by the Blot, he can something else that turned his attention. It has gotten Gus to appear right beside him, clenching on his shoulders in anticipation. Oswald’s thrashing ceased for just a moment.

In the middle of all of the pimple popping, the tentacles that curled around the gleaming heart have started to loosen its hold and starting to loosen its strength in comparison. One tentacle was released from the heart, and the ache from it felt like the equivalent of an arm being ripped off of its socket. A shuddering breath escaped the hero, sounding like all of the liveliness that was demonstrated before has been stripped out of him.

The brush clattered to the ground. Both hands, one monstrous and one not, slapped onto the ground right after the brush. Mickey’s head was lowered and heaving breaths were heard from him. The gremlin was now at his side, gripping onto his shoulders much more than before. His fingers caressed the shoulders as if it could help lessen the pain.

The rabbit’s thrashing continued and it has gradually _worsened._ His bare fingers scratched against the hardened hold on him, only creating scrapes that wouldn’t make a single dent. His shoulders jerked from side to side as if wiggling his arms enough could do at least something. His legs were kicking up and down, all in a moment of desperation and hopelessness. One thing that never changed was his soaked face becoming more drenched with each passing second. His inner demons are screeching at him, sounding a lot like actual demons that have come from the depths of Earth, instinctively clawing at the gaping hole that is his heart and shredding the rest of its remnants.

Plop. Plop plop. Tears stained the ground with his grief, with his _guilt._ That horrid thought returned. It sounded like nails dragging down a chalkboard, causing all of his surroundings to become nonexistent. He was being dragged to his self-loathing once again.

_YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT IT WAS ALL YOUR -_

He couldn’t _breathe._

_IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT WHY COULDN’T YOU HAVE SAVED WASTELAND WHY COULDN’T YOU HAVE HELPED YOUR BROTHER SOONER WHY COULDN’T YOU TAKE CARE OF WASTELAND LIKE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO -_

He couldn’t _think._

_YOUR FAULT YOUR WIFE BECAME INERT YOUR FAULT YOU COULDN’T SAVE HER YOU COULDN’T - OSWALD HELP, OSWALD HELP ME, IT’S GOT ME IT HAS ME OH MY GOSH HELP -_

“No... it isn’t.”

That... 

...that _silenced_ the thoughts. 

The thoughts that have tormented him from the start of being imprisoned. The thoughts that have him drowning in his guilt, bending him to his knees with all the terrible acts he has committed. It just... it all... 

It all _stopped._

It prevented Oswald from becoming a broken shell of a rabbit and is preventing him from being consumed by his inner demons. It has gotten him to sniffle from his wet nose, to forcibly allow the tears to gush down his cheeks so he could see what is in front of him, and it was then his mind clicked as to _who_ it could have been that stopped that madness.

It still didn’t deter him from how it knocked the wind out of him though. It’s just... it _wasn’t_ possible. How could it have been possible?

How could it be that his brother has heard those thoughts? Could it... be his connection to the Blot? If so, then... _how?_

Balking was the first thing he did after all of that, and he could have collapsed onto the floor in shock if he wasn’t trapped by now. His mind was fervently scrambling for answers to this, wracking and searching for any crook and nanny of a hint, of what clue he has missed, and while he couldn’t pinpoint anything that stood out to him specifically, spotting the blobs of ink rising from his younger sibling indicated it all.

He could have been mesmerized by the firm, confident stance of his brother alone. The way his shoulders have broadened and the way his shoes are nailed to the floor. The defiant glare that is illustrated on his face. The way his lip was tightened stubbornly. To think that before that brother of his was crumbling, feeling hopeless and devastated after his heart has been snatched away from him, and of how that was the result of him losing control, but now... now? Now it is like he is unbreakable; immovable.

_Untouchable._

“...It’s not yer fault.” Not a single syllable wavered. It wasn’t drenched in desperation. It wasn’t drowning in pity. It wasn’t like there was a single strand that Oswald and he were hanging onto. No. It was more like he was holding onto that strand and pulling them away from the darkness. From the pain. From anything that can harm them. “At... at a time, you didn’t want anythin’ ta do with me. You resented me fer takin’ away all th' fame and love you had, fer... fer _replacin’_ you.”

The second to last word contrasted from the rest of his spiel. While the others were assuring and full of life, it was that one word that sounded like it creaked, like it was a forbidden, horrid word to use. It diminished the glimmer in the toon’s eyes for just a moment, but it then sparkled like the fireworks that could be launched out of a cannon gleefully at every celebration, flickering and glittering in a whole assortment of colors and spectacular fashions that would stump anyone in awe. It was enough to show how special it is.

How special it is to _Oswald._

“And... y’anno what? I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you fer wantin’ to take somethin’ that was originally yours. I don’t blame you fer feelin’ furious that you were th’ first ta be forgotten. I don’t blame you fer wantin’ to take my heart jus’ so you can experience all the joy you had _before...”_

A hesitant turn was made - one towards the heart. Turps continued to do their job, destroying each of the bloticles without a second to stop. The pain inflicted felt like needles have crawled all among his arms and legs, pricking into his skin in a manner that it could have been so painful that the sense of pain has completely stopped - or maybe it was the feeling of having a lot of weight alleviating from his chest.

Things are starting to become a lot clearer than they ever were before.

“I don’t blame th’ Blot fer wantin’ to take it either. It... it never has experienced such a thing before. It never has seen what is outside of Wasteland, and it never had any purpose beside... _destruction.”_ Guilt crept into his voice. “...Because I never gave it a purpose. I _abandoned_ it. I left it to feel this pain, this anger, this resentment... and I don’t blame it fer wantin’ to take my heart and escape into th’ real world...”

_Even if I won’t allow you to do so. I can’t - I can’t let you hurt my home... my friends... too. Even if I understand you now._

A single tear tracked down one of his cheeks, precariously clinging onto the border of his chin before splashing onto the floor. It was that one tear duck that continued to flow, and... he isn’t sure if it’s coming from him or the fragment of the Blot inside of him. If the Blot could feel his tears, feel Oswald’s tears, feel their agony and pain and exhaustion and heartache... Mickey isn’t sure how it would react. He hasn’t heard anything from it, come to think of it. Not a single thought.

He isn’t sure what to make of it.

Oswald has fallen from his hold in a heap. He remained to be in a knelt position, his back hunched and his hands lying right in front of him. All of his numb fingers were curled up into fists, ones shaking with sympathy for the brother that stood before him. He wanted to say something, to stop his brother from pouring his heart out more, to stop blaming himself, that he shouldn’t feel bad about this, that this wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t mean to -

But it was then that the mouse moved; that soft smile still on his face. A shuddering breath slipped from him, and it could have been hesitance, fear, doubt, and it was so unreadable that Oswald couldn’t tell if it was all of those possible emotions or one of them. All he knew was that Mickey was trotting across, away from him, and towards the bloticles that ensnared the heart. He saw a hand reaching forward towards one of the bloticles. His breath hitched. His mind swam. His panic skyrocketed.

...What was he _doing?_

“Mickey! Get away from there!”

Gus clutched his chest. He could have done anything to prevent this. He could have teleported to save his friend, to keep him from danger, to say anything to drag him back, but he couldn’t. He wanted to but he couldn’t. Nothing could come out of his mouth and none of his limbs moved. All he could do was stare and hope for the best.

He hoped that his faith in him didn’t result in his downfall.

A palm gingerly clasped against one of the bloticles, one that has been shrunken down and containing the elongated thinner talons that have been previously chipped by paint, one that was transformed this way because of the connection Mickey has with the Blot. It, in an odd way, revealed more similarities than one between them. It... kind of made Mickey regret saying those words in his nightmares.

...Maybe they’re not so different, despite not being the same either.

He rested his forehead against the tentacle, ignoring the pleas from Oswald that he shouldn’t get too close or that he would be trapped or snatched away.

He didn’t move an inch.

_“...I’m sorry.”_

He didn’t have a chance to hear a response once the whole place was bathed in a bright light that threatened to stung their eyes. It encased the room with a red, warm glow, twinkling and sparkling with all the glee that one would have in a parade. It all surrounded the trio of toons, causing all of them to raise their heads and face the heart that was free from its cage, falling like a leaf from a branch.

Its weight was like a feather, swaying this way and that in the still air before landing onto someone’s palm. The palm who it belonged to couldn’t take his sight away from it, clinging the organ to his chest as if it was a fragile object that needed protection from a godly creature. His knees were drawn to his chest as well. It was his eyes that were the striking factor out of all of this, that is now filled with mirth and the kind of happiness he hasn’t felt in decades.

His brother was now at his eye-level, squatting down on his ankles. The smile that marred his face was losing its luster, becoming more empathetic and yet solemn with each passing minute. A part of him knew that when he obtains his heart back, the Blot will be no more. It will be like it never existed, and maybe its creations would disappear too.

...Did it deserve to eventually be _forgotten?_ Does it _deserve_ that fate?

_It’s inevitable, Mickey._

It isn’t fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to the one he abandoned.

_I know, it isn’t fair. But... I will be happier knowing that you are sorry regardless. That you didn’t mean to abandon me on purpose._

Tears stung his eyes. A sob threatened to break out.

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry..._

_...I forgive you._

A tear was wiped from cheek, brushing any hints of the salt-covered liquid until it is left dry. A hand cupped his face, and the person in front of him, now holding the heart in his other hand, passed the heart back to him, allowing him to take what is rightfully his. The smile that is presented on the rabbit’s face was similar to his, but for different reasons entirely.

“...Here.” It was like he can feel the sorrow that is radiating off of his brother. His voice didn’t contain any jealousy or resentment. Only kindness. “You earned it.”

The radiant maroon light from the heart didn’t falter. It gleamed brighter the second Mickey reached a hand toward it, his fingers twitching as it hovered over the pumping organ. His fingers grabbed a hold of the heart by its round edges and after one touch, everything was bathed in that blinding luminescence again, but it was all in white instead of red.

None of the toons were aware of magic washing over Wasteland, of it returning the ruins of the forgotten land to its former glory, but Mickey Mouse knew one thing and one thing only: That it is time to say goodbye. That it is time to say goodbye to the being that he created, to the being that was in so much pain from the start, and had only wanted love just like any other toon. Mickey understood his creation now more than ever, and that’s why it hurt the most that the one thing he couldn’t save is someone he made with his bare hands.

And yet... at the same time, it felt kind of uplifting. That the worst is finally over, that there is no more pain to be dealt with.

That he can return _home._

And so with him twirling around the atmosphere of Wasteland like a firework, he glanced back at the land with one tearful smile before returning to Yensid, but not without a few words.

_Goodbye, Mickey._

_Goodbye, Blot._


	10. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finally done, folks. Connection has finally ended and what a ride it has been. I never expected such a fic to get a lot of attention and I'm glad that I have written it despite some mistakes here and there (but no fic is perfect, right?). There were several unused ideas I had for this fic, such as the original plan of Mickey becoming a scrapper, of Oswald becoming The Storm Blot, and other things that wouldn't have made sense nor fit into this fic. This fic was more of a different insight into the Blot and Mickey and I hope that I have done it well.
> 
> I haven't written a chapter-fic in such a long time and this was a great experience getting back into it. I might not write another fic (whether in this fandom or another) for a while, but again, this was a fun experience. This chapter is not recommended to read as it's just a semi-novelization of the ending, but you can read it if you want everything to be wrapped in a nice little bow.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the support! <3

Someone once said that when you return to where everything begins, whether it is in the comfort of your home or of somewhere else entirely, it almost feels surreal. It feels as if you have hardly moved from your spot as if you haven’t experienced something grand and life-changing. It feels as if every single thing that you have encountered, whether it would send chills down your spine that contain sub-zero temperatures or not, was nothing more than a figment of your imagination. As if this was just a dream formed by your imagination.

Only, in this particular case, it _wasn’t._ Instead, it was something more than just that.

It was the familiar scenery of the dust-coated workshop that has caused the paintbrush-wielder’s heart to plummet into the depths of his stomach, dropping down like an anvil and creating a devastating quake afterward. The second he landed into a certain someone’s hand, feeling calloused fingers brushing against his fur, he swallowed the lump that was lodged in his throat and immediately darted his vision away from the wizard, planning to scramble away with his tail in between his legs.

It was one thing to tamper with the wizard’s magical tools once, but _twice?_ Oh, oh he is going to be plunged into a pot of boiling water. The trouble he caused beforehand with the brooms was nothing compared to what he has done currently and thus, he released his numbing fingers from the brush, now free from any scratches that have previously marked it or ink that was splotched all over the handle. Now that he is giving the object away, it almost feels ludicrous. He’s had it with him for so long that it's like a _component_ of him, something he can’t live without, but... it wasn’t his, to begin with.

Now here comes the guilt that is beginning to crush his soul... if toons _had_ souls.

“Yen...” A hushed tone of his was spoken, stuttering like he has been trapped inside of a meat locker, or as if he is speaking to a hostile animal that would feast on him for lunch without a single thought. “It’s... it’s...” He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip, hoping the pressure he’s placing on it could alleviate the tension swirling in the air. “It’s... it’s not what it looks like. I-I...” What was there he could say? What was there he could do? What was there he could admit that meant he didn’t mean to cause any harm? What could he do that was worth more than just an _apology?_

That same lip he has bitten quivered as he desperately attempted to sort through his options, his mind conjuring a multitude of ‘what-ifs’ and options that could bring some kind of positive outcome. He has been wracking his brain for something to conclude all of this, and he almost wished he had the presence of the gremlin or his brother to help him out. He missed them _so_ much already.

Overwhelmed by his inner turmoil and of his thoughts screeching at him to do something, he slipped precariously off of Yensid’s hand, plopping down on his knees with a thud and intertwining his fidgeting hands together (to which he has yet to realize that one of his hands no longer had thinner claws), dropping them in his lap while he lowered his head in a way that resembled shame.

There was no other way out of this. He has to come to terms with his actions. He can no longer run away from them. He can no longer run away from his problems. It was what brought him into Wasteland in the first place. It was what caused him to suffer so much torment from the creature he created. No longer is he darting away from the fear of confronting his faults.

It’s now or never.

“...Yensid...” His coal-black, cartoonish eyes locked onto the wizard, whose demeanor never faltered. A part of him wondered how such a figure could be so calm and collected, but maybe he was channeling all of his anger and disappointment at him. Maybe. “...I know this isn’t th’ first time I have... I have messed with somethin’ of yours.”

An image of him falling in a whirlpool flickered at the back of his eyelids, rendering him to cringe at the horrid memory. Yet, that kind of memory is not as terrifying as his adventure through Wasteland and the... the inky creature he has created with that brush. He _still_ can’t get that memory of being strapped to that table out of his mind.

“And... and it was... it was foolish - no, _careless_ of me to run away from somethin’ I could have fixed years ago.” His nervous expression shifted to a frown, and he lowered his head again to avoid eye-contact. “I - I know I didn’t mean to - to do that to people I didn’t remember, people I didn’t - people I had no idea about... but th’ damage is still done and... and I’m sorry I caused such a mess...”

Would Wasteland forgive him for causing such a disaster that ruined their lives? Would _Oswald_ forgive him for being the reason his wife is inert? He could deal with punishments from Yensid, he can deal with anger coming from the Petes in Wasteland or from the forgotten toons, and he can even deal with the Blot’s voice nagging at him for the rest of his life, but... he’s not so sure he can ever deal with his long lost sibling resenting him all over again.

Not after they have come _so_ far.

“I accept any punishment you give me...”

* * *

_Pain._

It pulsed in every limb of his body. It pulsed in his fingertips, his toes, his bushy tail, and in between his teeth. It seared through him in such a manner that has made it difficult to move, and, at this point, with dirt shoveling into his mouth from his fall, and after tasting the disgusting soil, he didn’t want to move. Of course, this wasn’t a critical injury and it wasn’t like he was immobilized, but the minor pain from the fall only added insult to injury to his emotional pain.

The Blot might have been defeated, taken care of once and for all right after he activated the fireworks, but... his brother had to return home as a _result_ of that. His brother is a piece of his family and welcomed him with greeting arms and warm hugs. His brother who has been through thick and thin with him, facing any danger he has come into contact with, and now... now he isn’t going to be seen again. Now he isn’t going to be able to see him again.

It was that heartbreaking realization that has made Oswald finally raise his head, detaching from the trail of dirt that has laced Mean Street, and has started hobbling over towards the statue of his creator, leaning his back against the cold, harsh, metallic material of the tilting statue that remained in the center of the projectors. Truth be told, he found it sad he had to take comfort in a piece of metal that only looked like his creator, but what was there he could do?

It is only his children and him that are the last remaining members of his family in Wasteland.

With his floppy ears flattening against his back, he slapped his bare palms over his eyes, hoping that by obscuring them and keeping them away from any toon, it could prevent any tears from dripping down to his cheeks. He tugged his knees close to his chest before resting his elbows on top of them, and after that, he started curling up into a little ball, feeling just as insignificant as he did before this started.

How ironic that it ended where it all _began._

Unless, that was what he would have thought if the ends of his shorts weren’t tugged, and the tugging was so forceful that he had no choice but to raise his head again. Smearing his tears on one of his hands, he stared at the hopping bunny child that has ceased his tugging, pointing a paw towards the sky.

He furrowed a brow at his child, believing that whatever it is that is seen, it must have been spurred from the kid’s imagination. “What is it, Oswald Junior number forty-six?” It took years of practice to differentiate them all from one another, even if they did all have the _same_ name.

“Look, papa!” Junior number forty-six was now bouncing on his feet, his pointing becoming more erratic by the minute. “Look, _look!”_

Oswald would have chuckled at his son’s enthusiasm, but as he glanced at the sky, the last thing he expected to see was raindrops falling from the sky, with each droplet being colorful paint. Droplets have peppered the streets, changing the cement from a dull gray to a light one, and even some have fallen onto the shops, making them stand tall without needing planks of wood to support them from crashing down.

Some rained on top of the tilting towers of Dark Beauty Castle, stabilizing the brick that held the castle in place, and restoring its colors from a regal purple to a shimmering powder blue. The sight of it has caused the rabbit to clasp a hand on his chest, gawking at the scenery that is displayed right in front of him.

He couldn’t believe it. If he were to be told this in his time of isolation, he would have thought that it was a hopeless dream. But now? Now, he isn’t sure whether to pinch his arm to prove himself that he isn’t dreaming, or to revel in this happiness that he hasn’t felt in years.

At the corner of his eye, he spotted something that the bunny child started hopping toward, grabbing a hold of his wrist as to drag him toward the figure that he has protected on the Control Tower. The same figure who was nearly swallowed up the Blot. The same figure that was inert, losing all of the colors that has made her beautiful. And now.... now...

 _...Ortensia_ is back. A petite figure that has started wringing her bare hands, twiddling her nimble fingers and intertwining and releasing them. Her pointy ears were raised, flicking from left to right as to listen to any sound that could reach them. Her eyes fluttered and blinked multiple times, curving in the kind of confusion as if she was a caveman that was released from their icy prison and ending up in the present time.

A voice clawed at her brain, endlessly nagging at her with endless questions: What happened? Where is the Blot? The dark clouds? The toons scattering away in terror? It didn’t make any sense. None of this truly made any sense, and it was that fear of the unknown that gripped her chest and she hoped to call her Hunny bunny, turning around to encounter the one rabbit she has been dying to see.

Both married toons shared the same reaction: Tears sitting on the borders of their eyes, smiles so wide that it’s concealing their faces, and their fingers twitching with the uncontrollable urge to cling onto one another and to never let go. Ortensia charged first, spreading her arms wide as she rammed into her husband, pressing her lips against his forehead, then his cheeks, and then his lips.

“Oswald! _Oh,_ Oswald!” Another peck. “I missed you, Hunny bunny!”

Oswald ignored the groan of his son at the mushy display, only erupting into laughter as every single kiss tickled. He snickered through his gritted teeth, grabbing a hold of his wife by her waist and holding her up so that they could have their eyes meeting again. He missed her so much. He missed her smile. He missed her laughter.

Now that she’s back, he feels _whole_ again.

“I missed you too, honeybunch.”

* * *

It seemed like centuries had passed since the moment he sat there. He had the sudden compulsive urge to fiddle with the buttons on his shorts, as the silence has become daunting to him. He isn’t sure if the silence itself was a punishment, or that the usually cryptic wizard is deciding what to do with him. Regardless of the case, he’s ready for it.

He expected a lecture. A scolding. Something that showed just how irate the wizard has become at such foolish actions. Mickey didn’t want to end up defending himself, as the majority of those faults lied on him, and it didn’t matter that most of it came from the influence of the Blot. As he said... the damage is _done._

His shoulders tensed. His eyes were screwed shut. He waited for something, anything, anything at all that can determine the upcoming frustration that could come from Yensid...

And what he didn’t expect was a hand resting on his shoulder, causing him to cringe at the contact. He raised his head, tilting it as he found out that there wasn’t a glare coming from the imposing figure. A finger was raised and pointed at the mirror that he came from. It didn’t take a genius for him to figure out that this must be where the punishment is: That he wouldn’t waltz into the workshop for the second time.

Fair enough. He can deal with that, even if he is going to miss his brother.

Standing right back up, he nodded right back at the wizard, his mouth drawn in a thin line as to not let his sadness show. He sucked in a breath of confidence, arms pinning to his sides as he headed right back to the mirror. His footsteps bounced off the walls of the workshop, but he paid no mind as he slipped right through the transparent mirror, only looking back with a sheepish smile and a wave.

_I guess this is goodbye..._

He acknowledged the smile appearing on the wizard’s face before it was too late, and a hint of magic darted towards the mirror, and he would have expected to have his skin grazed off with fragments of glass shards, he would have expected the mirror to be encased in steel or of an unbreakable material. He blinked once. Blinked twice.

What he found when opening his eyes again caused him to drop to his knees. The visage of his brother stood before him, his pale face peppered with kisses, and a gleeful smile illustrating his face as he rushed toward the mirror, skidding to a stop as he nearly crashed right into it.

“...You did it...” he spoke with bated breath, slapping his palm against the paper-thin glass, “You... you...”

“No...” Mickey countered, a tearful smile perking up his lips. He raised a palm too, resting it upon it so that it appeared that their hands were touching. _"We..._ did it. Th’ both of us.”

He wished this moment could last forever. He wished this moment of being introduced to his sister-in-law, seeing her waving and talking and keeping close to her husband, could last forever. A part of him wished that he could have stayed in Wasteland just a bit longer, just to see how Wasteland was truly restored and that his brother and he can catch up on the brotherly relationship that they _never_ had.

And when the mirror faded away, dissipating the image before him, his shoulders deflated with a sigh. However, that sigh was one of content, of exhaustion, and he could have sworn he felt something still squirming inside of his chest, becoming more of a comfort than a nuisance, but the noise of a creaking door opening caused him to glance away for just a second.

A familiar face beamed at him, her hands held together in anticipation. She could have run right towards him, demanding where he has been, questioning if he’s alright, wondering what those ink drippings rising off of his ears were, but she didn’t have to say anything as her boyfriend dashed right into her, holding her close as if she was his life support.

“Minnie... I _missed_ you...”

Her smile became fond. Her hand gently caressed the top of his head, right in between his ears, and she leaned down to smooch him on the forehead. There’s going to be a _lot_ of explaining to do, but for now, hugs and kisses are the only things that mattered.

“I missed you too...”


End file.
